Bessie Hound
by EverspringNative
Summary: An Erik Kire story, told through his son Alex and Erik himself. Short story about how Erik obtained the basset hound Bessie that appears in my other Kire stories. Helpful if you've read the other stories (A Heart that Waits is the first one), however, if you've only read the first one OR if you haven't read any, all you need to know is the Phantom gets a puppy :)
1. Chapter 1

The Bessie origin story! Hoping to top this out at 6-8 chapters, told between Alex and Erik. First up is Alex, who has long since been my favorite character to write in the stories. Please let me know what you think!

CH ONE

"Father?"

I stood in the doorway and counted to three. Then to six. There was no response. I shifted my weight and tapped my fingernails against the door frame. Breath held, I waited to be acknowledged.

It was the middle of the morning, but his bedroom dark aside from the meager lamplight in the center of his desk. Heavy curtains blocked the bright sunlight, which made it feel late at night. My father held out his index finger and continued to sit hunched over. His uneaten breakfast remained on the service cart behind him, yet another meal missed. His lips moved as he read the newspaper, but he did not look up or further acknowledge me.

Again I counted to three. Waiting. I considered tapping again, but I knew what my father would say.

" _Not now, Alexandre."_

" _Five minutes."_

" _Did I not say not now?"_

" _Have you no ears? Five minutes, I said."_

Seconds turned into a full minute. I know because I silently counted to sixty before I turned and walked down the stairs, defeated once more. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes as I paused in the middle of the staircase and considered running back up to father's dark room, but my aunt rounded the corner.

"Alex," she said softly.

I jumped off the stairs, right from the very middle-five stairs up, and landed perfectly beside her. Before she could reprimand me, I flung my arms around her waist and buried my face against her chest. She smelled like cookies and warm bread and felt soft and secure.

"You know your father is very busy," she said.

"I know," I replied.

"Why don't you walk to the market with me? I could use strong muscles to help carry all the food you will undoubtedly eat."

"Yes!" I exclaimed, mostly because I knew she would allow me to have at least one treat.

000

Aunt Meg always told me I was the first person she ever laid eyes on and loved immediately. She had reaffirmed this statement repeatedly, for as long as I could recall, and I would tell her that I loved her from the moment I was old enough to know who she was.

No matter how many times we had this same exchange, I would smile and she would laugh. But in all honesty, I had been a baby when we first met, I told her, and babies don't have memories. At least not the types of memories adults have.

I did, however, remember small moments in our days such as my grandmere writing to her brother and the way she would pause, smile to herself, and continue with her letter. I remembered my Aunt Meg allowing me to sample whatever she made for supper ahead of everyone else because I was a growing boy and she feared I would become anemic or starve to death. I remembered sitting on my father's bed while he played new compositions. Even when I was very small, I knew my father was an outstanding musician and brilliant composer. My grandmere made certain to tell me consistently that my father was the greatest musical genius she had ever known.

My father still composed and played daily, but he locked his bedroom door for hours and my grandmere and aunt told me not to bother him. He is busy, they would tell me. He will come down soon, they would say.

But he did not come out. Not for hours sometimes or for the entire day. Late at night I would hear the floor creak from my bedroom and my father's footsteps as he walked down the stairs to the kitchen where Aunt Meg left his supper. As much as I wanted to tiptoe into the hall and sneak into the kitchen for a mere moment of my father's time, I knew he would tell me to return to bed.

I would lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, listening to the clink of silverware against his plate. Alone in the dark, I attempted to recall the exact moment when my father no longer welcomed me into his room. For as long as I could recall, he allowed me to rifle through his papers and open every desk drawer, but the drawers were all now locked, and if I moved a single sheet of paper, he ordered me to stop at once.

Instead of a desk full of compositions, there were newspaper clippings spread out. I had no idea what my father searched for in the articles and Grandmere would not tell me. Aunt Meg said she did not know, but I could tell that she did. Despite years spent as a performer, she was not a decent actress, at least for an audience of one. Her eyes would become wide, her body would turn more rigid, and her voice higher whenever she attempted to make up an excuse or keep the truth from me because I was too young to know about grown up matters.

"Why is Father staying in his room?" I asked Aunt Meg as we walked toward the market.

It had been three months now since he had transformed from attentive to preoccupied. He had always been on the thin side, but frequently missed meals made him noticeably gaunt. The warm side of his face was sunken in from his cheeks to eye socket. Even Madame Julia, who lived behind us, commented to Aunt Meg how my father was almost skeletal in appearance. She was worried for him, and I was as well.

"Your father has many compositions that need to be finished in a timely matter," Meg answered.

"But why?"

"Because that is what is expected of him by gentleman that commission his work. It is how he makes a living and provides for you."

"But when I walk into his room, he is not composing."

Meg's eyes grew wide. "Of course he is," she answered incredulously.

"He is reading newspapers," I said. "I've seen it."

Meg's posture changed. She pulled her shoulders back and pursed her lips. "Your father has always read newspapers," she answered. "That is nothing new."

"But-"

"Why don't we stop at the bakery before we head to the market?" she suggested, her tone noticeably higher.

At the age of seven, I was certainly not a fool and realized my opportunity for not only one treat, but two.

"May I buy a tart for Father?"

Meg smiled and ran her fingers through my hair. "Of course you may. He will like that very much, especially coming from you."

We sat outside the bakery at round tables with metal chairs where Aunt Meg verbally went over her list and asked me to remind her of all the food she needed to purchase for the week.

"You will remind me, won't you?" she asked.

"Yes," I groaned.

The list was never very long, however, Aunt Meg made a distinct point of arguing over the most inconsequential details from the fish not looking nearly as big as the ones from the previous week to the price of butter going up, even if the difference was so small Father would never have noticed the price difference or bothered to acknowledge it on the receipts. Aunt Meg, however, would exhaust the grocer into compensating her in whatever way she found most satisfactory whether it was extra apples, topping off a bag of flour, or a bottle of wine.

The task of accompanying my aunt to market was daunting, and so, as she bartered prices, wagged her finger, and stomped her feet, I wandered about and browsed the same selection of toys or watched a puppet show on the north side of the market to pass the time.

We went each week together while Grandmere met with old friends from the giant house she had lived in years ago. They would talk about dance and music for hours, and Grandmere, who had once been in charge of the ballet, was invited to other giant houses. There she would yell at the dancers until they stopped dancing like cows-at least that is what Aunt Meg said happened. As for my father, he remained at home. He did not venture out of the house during the day. At night, he either took a walk or visited Madame Julia because she fed him. Aunt Meg said Father stays inside all day because he was far too busy with composing, but I knew there were other reasons. Or, at least one reason in particular. He did not want anyone to see his White Face.

"Stay where I can see you," Aunt Meg told me as we neared the bustling market alive with the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. There was laughter, cursing, street urchins begging, men yelling orders, the smell of baked goods and the malodorous scent of animal waste and perspiration. It was my favorite and least favorite day of the week.

Aunt Meg gave me the same instructions every week. Do not accept anything from strangers, do not run about like a wild animal, and stay where she could see me.

I walked around, weaving in between people bustling with baskets and bags slung over their shoulders. There were boys a few years older than me, red-faced as they carried larger bags of grains and barrels containing all sorts of things to waiting wagons being loaded across the street.

Aunt Meg was in a very heated discussion with the gentleman who sold her bacon and ham. I could very clearly hear her use words such as _swindling_ and _utterly ridiculous_ and knew we would be at the market for quite some time.

I ventured a little further than usual and saw a man in a rust colored shirt seated on a small barrel with a large, open box. Within the box, six puppies peeked out, tumbling over one another for a bit of food he dangled over their heads.

They were not like puppies I had ever seen before, what with their unusually long ears. They looked similar to beagles, but much longer and with shorter legs. I stepped over and leaned forward, watching them as they wrestled one another and attempted to climb out of their confines.

"May I hold one?" I asked the gentleman.

The man nodded. He was older, with one eye larger than the other, and gray stubble on his chin. He reached a thin hand down into the box, scooped up a puppy, and put the squirming creature into my arms.

The puppy licked my face and neck, and I turned away, laughing to myself as he continued to lick my ear.

"He is magnificent!"

"She," the man corrected. "Ten francs if you wish to take her home."

My heart very nearly stopped beating. "I can take her home?" I exclaimed.

"They are for sale."

A puppy for sale! Truly, for a boy seven years of age, there could have been no sweeter words spoken. I glanced back to see if Aunt Meg had overheard the conversation, but she was far too busy gesturing at a bag of flour. For that I was grateful as she would have dashed my hopes of returning home with a pet.

I turned to face the gentleman and attempted to appear as nonchalant as possible, but I was about to burst with excitement. "Which is the best one?" I asked.

The man pointed into the box. I could not tell which one he suggested was the best, or what made it so, but I nodded.

"The one you're holding is the scrawny one. Destined for the river, that one. Not a single person is interested in that thing."

I was offended on the puppy's behalf and twisted, placing my hand over her ear as though to keep her from hearing such disparaging words. "She is magnificent," I said defensively.

The man shrugged.

"Does she like to swim?" I asked. In the back of my mind I envisioned my father teaching me to swim with my new puppy. We would spend hours paddling around, perhaps from dawn until dusk while on holiday. Father would not hide away in his room; he would proudly watch and say I was a natural at learning to swim.

The man grunted. "She better hope she learns to swim fast if she knows what's good for her."

Horrified by what the man insinuated, I held the puppy closer to my chest, protecting her from her doomed fate, if only for a moment. In my arms, she would know kindness and love.

"She is perfect," I said as the pup nuzzled my neck.

And she was, all of her wrinkles, long ear, short legs, and warm tongue against my face. She wriggled and squirmed and whined out of pure love for me, and in turn I held her tight and chuckled at her antics.

Again I looked back at Aunt Meg. She would, of course, tell me there was no chance of me taking home a puppy. She would say Father would turn us all out on the street for bringing a filthy creature into his home, but I knew my father had a soft spot for animals. I had seen him a time or two out for walks stop to pat a carriage horse waiting at the corner across from our home. I was supposed to be sound asleep, but sometimes I stayed awake and peered out the window simply to watch him round the corner while he hummed to himself.

My father had told me that when he was a boy, he had a dog for a brief time and a pet donkey as well, and that when he lived in the giant house with my grandmere, he fed apples to the carriage horses and brought milk to the barn cats. His features softened when he spoke of the horses at the giant house, and the cats that followed him around and demanded to be treated to a bowl of fresh milk.

Father would love a puppy, I told myself. Perhaps he would no longer find the need or desire to spend hours hunched over his desk reading the paper if he had a dog to keep him company. And of course, he would not care for a puppy on his own; he would ask me to help him and we would spend hours together once more.

My father would need me as he had in the past. He would want me to spend hours with him as I had once done. The door would no longer be locked and my father would not disappear inside of his room from sunrise until late in the evening because he would want to see both of us, me and our new puppy.

A puppy would make my father content once more. He had not been content for months now. His eyes were distant, his hands balled into fists, and his words for me few. Week after week, I knew that I lost him. I simply did not know why.

"What kind of puppies are they?" I asked.

"Bessie hounds," the man answered.

"Bessie hounds," I repeated. I had never heard of such a thing, but I was certain I could teach my Bessie hound to hunt fox and catch rabbits. She would learn tricks, like how to dance on her back legs and balance food on her nose.

And my father would tousle my hair, pat me on the back, and say, "Alexandre, you have selected a fine, fine hound, the pick of the litter." Then we would shake our heads and marvel at how our Bessie hound had nearly been tossed into a river to drown her for no other reason than she was the smallest in the litter.

"One moment," I said as I turned away.

The man made a sound that stopped me in my tracks. "Leave it here," he said.

Reluctantly I turned and deposited the puppy back into the box as a family of five approached and fawned over the litter.

"The little one is mine," I said to the man. He looked down his nose at me before he turned away.

I trotted across the cobblestones to Aunt Meg, who had finished giving one man a piece of her mind and laid into a woman who stood with her hands on her wide hips and brow arched.

"Aunt Meg!" I yelled as I tugged on her skirt.

"Alex, not know," she said without sparing me a glance.

"But this is important!"

More than important, I wanted to tell her. This was life and death, quite literally, for an innocent hound dog in a box across the market street destined to be tossed into the river.

Aunt Meg gave an exasperated sigh and turned to face me. "What is it?"

In the heat of arguing with anyone out to swindle her for one more franc, Aunt Meg was in no mood to agree to a puppy. I could practically see the words _absolutely not_ about to roll from her tongue.

"May I have ten francs? I want to buy something for Father," I said. Before she could respond, I dropped my shoulders and jutted out my bottom lip. "Please."

"I do not have ten francs to spare-"

"Please, Aunt Meg."

"Alexandre, I said I do not have ten francs to spare. Now go watch the puppet show."

"But I need to buy something so Father will speak to me again," I blurted out in one last, desperate attempt.

Aunt Meg whirled around to face me, her eyes wide and lips parted in shock.

I had not intended to admit such a deep, stab of truth. Immediately I sucked in a breath and looked away so that she would not see the tears in my eyes. My chance of regaining my father's love was slipping away. Over and over again I knocked on a closed door, asked my aunt and uncle and Grandmere why my own father would not leave his room, and no one would bother to answer me. Not even Madame Julia would tell me what I had done or what I could do in order to garner his affection once more. They would shake their head, frown, and attempt to redirect my questions until I finally gave in.

All I knew for certain was that the newspaper replaced our time together. Rather than reach out and grasp my shoulder, my father ran his finger along photos in the newspaper and articles that took up every moment of his day. The woman whose pictures he collected was a famous soprano, Christine de Chagny, wife to the Comte de Chagny. A time or two when I saw an article lying about, I noticed her last name was blacked out by a pen and replaced with four letters: Daae. I had no idea who she was or why my father wrote that single word. All I knew was I disliked her. Immensely.

"Oh, Alex," Aunt Meg said softly. She pulled me in close and kissed the top of my head. A trembling hand caressed down my spine before she kissed me again, this time on the forehead. I pinched my eyes shut and inhaled the scent of sugar and bread on her clothing, and savored the warmth of her protective embrace. She was soft, warm like the puppy, but not as wiggly.

I fought back the tears as she ran her fingers through my hair, a gesture that reminded me of my father. If he was in the middle of a composition and I sat beside him, he would reach out while he continued to work and stroke my hair. I had not realized how much I missed the closeness we once shared until my aunt mimicked my father's actions.

"Ten francs," she promised. "Mother will have to wait on her coffee."

"Milk," I said. "Do not purchase milk for me. Grandmere will die without her coffee."

Aunt Meg smiled and nodded in agreement before she handed me a ten franc banknote and embraced me again. She cupped my face in her hands and kissed me several times as though somehow showering me with affection could fill in the space left by my father's absence.

"Don't go near the horses any more, do you understand? You smell like a barnyard."

I felt my cheeks burn. Clearly she did not appreciate the scent of a sweet puppy-or know one animal from the next.

"May I return home with my gift?" I asked.

"Return home?"

"I do not feel well."

Meg pursed her lips. I could tell she considered abandoning her quest of thoroughly tormenting each vendor at the market in favor of seeing me home safely. "You know the way?"

I nodded. We were three streets from home, and there was only one turn past the bakery. I could have walked it blindfolded and found my way to our front steps. Still, Aunt Meg looked unconvinced.

"If anything were to happen to you, your father will murder me," Aunt Meg said under her breath.

"Nothing will happen," I assured her. I would have a brave hound to defend me, which of course I could not tell her. With my new puppy, I would be fearless.

"Fine. Do not stop and do not speak to strangers. You walk straight home, do you hear me?"

"Yes," I groaned.

"I love you." She kissed me again and I kissed her back.

"I love you too, Aunt Meg."

With that she turned away, and her sweet demeanor was once again carefully tucked away as she continued to barter for a week's worth of food. I felt a small sense of regret in being untruthful with her, but I was determined to win back my father's attention. Once I was certain she was preoccupied, I trotted back toward the box of puppies and-to my alarm-did not see a single head peeking out from the box.

My heart sank as I paused halfway through the market. "No," I whispered. "No, please."

Those were the words I had heard my father say often in the middle of the night when I fell asleep beside him. If I elbowed him in the chest or flopped over hard enough, he would wake immediately, touch the White Face, and softly call my name. Each time I pretended to be sound asleep as I knew if I opened my eyes, he would make me return to my own room.

A time or two I asked what caused his bad dreams, but Father dismissed my words and said it was nothing. I knew he did not like to speak about what roused him in the middle of the night or his White Face. I did not dare tell my father I had seen the White Face slip up while he slept as I knew he always made certain it was securely in place before he would meet my eye. In a way, he thought he protected me by keeping the White Face on whenever I stayed with him, while I in turn protected him by not acknowledging that I knew it was not real.

"Monsieur," I called out. "My puppy! You sold her?"

The man spread his legs and motioned me closer. "Asleep," he said. "Right here in the corner."

I sighed in relief and sprinted over, peering into the box where the smallest Bessie hound had curled alone into the corner. I would fall asleep with my head on Father's pillow and the coverlet up to my chin while I listened to him hum as he scribbled down notes well into the night. The puppy would thump her tail to the music and fight sleep as she attempted to listen to Father hum the tunes he created, but eventually we would both fall asleep. Eventually, Father would place his composition in a neat pile, turn to find us asleep in his bed, and smile to himself. Then I would feel the dip in the mattress as he finally retired for the night and gently nudged me toward the edge. There we would sleep until morning, the puppy in my arms and my father gently breathing against the back of my neck.

"The very last one," I said, relieved to see my prized hound still up for sale. "Should I wake her?"

The man did not answer me. He scooped her up, rousing her in the process, and handed her to me. "Five francs for the scrawny thing."

"Ten," I said proudly. She was worth more than ten francs to me, but that was all the money I had to my name.

"I do not accept returns," he said as he plucked the banknote from my grasp and stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket.

"I would never return her," I promised. The little bundle of fur grunted as she nestled her head against the crook of my arm and promptly fell asleep once more. "This is for my father. A gift."

The man grunted. "For your father, eh? He wants a bag of bones pup, does he?"

"My father is the composer," I added.

"The composer? The only one in the world?" the man said mockingly.

"Monsieur Erik Kire," I said proudly.

The man's eyes narrowed. "Your father is Monsieur Kire?"

I nodded. "He loves music and dogs."

The man sat up straighter. "Is it for his birthday?"

I shook my head. "A gift because I love him. And because he loves me."

I held my Bessie hound closer. My father would love me again. After weeks of shutting me out, he would finally love me again as he had for so many years.

This gift would change everything. It had to. I could not bear being pushed aside a moment longer.


	2. Eternal Darkness

To Erik's POV for the even chapters. A glimpse into Erik before the exposition.

Chapter 2

"Father?"

I held out my index finger and continued to scour the paper. Christine had been back in the news for several days in a row as she graced audiences in Austria and Germany as part of a small tour arranged by prominent figures across Europe. By all accounts, she was celebrated and adored by thousands of people night after night.

I smiled inwardly, imagining her as she stood before the crowds and sang for them with her clear, angelic voice.

But she did not sing for me.

No, she had not gifted me with any part of her for well over eight years now. The smile on my lips faded, my initial excitement replaced by a spike of anger.

She had left me. Betrayed me. Abandoned me when she knew that her voice sustained me. Without her I was withering, dying a slow, meticulous death alone in my bedroom with nothing to comfort me other than her image on the front page and a brief account of how she lived her life without me.

I wanted her back. No, it was more than wanting. I would have her back. That I new for certain. She would return to me, to her angel, to the only person in the world who knew the inner workings of her heart. Long ago we had shared something; now we would share it again.

The proof of our union was within my reach…

I turned toward the doorway and found Alexandre had disappeared, the impatient child. Five minutes, I had told him, but he would not wait thirty seconds. I can only assume Alexandre inherited his impatience from me. With a heavy sigh, I shook my head.

"Five minutes," I muttered under my breath as I twisted in my seat and looked at the clock.

My heart immediately dropped in my chest. Three hours had passed since my son trudged up the stairs to my room and knocked, requesting a moment of my time. Three hours since I had held up a single finger to continue reading the paper.

"Alex?" I called out, but there was no answer. It was Friday, the one day of the week in which the house was eerily quiet as Madeline visited friends, Meg took Alex to the market, and Charles wrote his letters and papers for the university and enjoyed peace and quiet.

Alex was the most noticeably absent in the house as he was constantly in motion or asking a question to whomever was within the same room as him. Frenetically inquisitive, he consistently left me in awe with how quickly he could change subjects or how enthusiastically he greeted me each morning with a smile and tight hug.

"Good morning, Father!" he would shout as he wrapped his arms around me. No matter how cynical and frustrated I was with my music, Alex exuded undeniable joy.

I started to fold the paper, but stopped as my fingers smoothed over the image of Christine on the front page. Alex's wide smile mirrored hers, but it had been weeks since I had seen him offer a toothy grin or fall dramatically back on my bed when Meg retrieved him for his afternoon lessons.

It was my fault for always giving in to his every whim. When he called for me, I stopped in the middle of my work and doted on him, or hastily scribbled down the last notes of a melody and gave him my full attention. But now there was a more pressing matter, and when I asked my son for a moment to finish reading an article, he refused.

Soon Alex would realize that everything I did was for him. In due time he would be grateful for my persistence. I would bring him something he never should have lost: his mother.

Over the years, much to my surprise, Alex had not asked about Christine. Madeline assumed the role of his grandmother virtually from the time Christine left our son in my home, while Meg, by default, became what Madeline had been to me in my youth; a mother and a sister.

He had been quite attached to Meg as an infant and toddler, and the two of them spent hours each afternoon singing and entertaining one another. Now that he was a bit older, he spent his time with Charles for lessons, Meg in the kitchen, Madeline when he needed something and knew I would tell him absolutely not, and even the neighbor behind us-Julia-whose young daughter he played with after he finished his studies. He had a solid foundation of adults in his life providing for him, and perhaps he did not know what we both truly needed.

I would give Alex what he did not know he had missed all of these years and reunite Christine with our son. She would see how he was both bright and kind, with a quick smile and a laugh that lightened my heart. He was everything to me, everything I was not and desperately wanted. She would be taken aback by what a well-rounded son she had left behind, and marvel at my ability to raise our child. At last she would see me as a worthy man, a husband and father.

I did not fault her for leaving Alex as she had done. Perhaps she would regret her decision. Perhaps she would tearfully explain why she had left him screaming and hungry on my doorstep, but I did not crave answers.

Quite simply, I craved the warmth of her touch and the magnetism of her voice. I craved the way she made my pulse quicken when she took to the stage, how she would look over her shoulder and search for me, for her angel.

The front door opened and quickly shut. I stood, walked to the doorway, and peered down the stairs in time to see Madeline remove her hat and gloves. Either she did not notice me or she chose to ignore my presence. She rifled through a small stack of letters, removed one and dropped the rest onto the table beside her keys, and took up her cane before she walked down the hall.

Disappointed, I returned to my desk and carefully compiled all of the articles that had appeared in recent months. Once they were organized in chronological order, I placed them into my desk drawer and locked it before walking downstairs to retrieve the mail that Madeline usually delivered to my bedroom.

It aggravated me, the gall of that woman, to leave all of my contracts, payments, and inquiries in the foyer. She clearly forgot who paid all of the bills and made certain she lived a comfortable life.

"Oh good," Madeline said from the end of the hall as I picked up the stack of letters. "You came down for once."

Her voice startled me, and I turned to see her drying her hands at the end of the hall. I did not care for her tone or her words, and so I turned my back to her.

"Where is today's paper?" she asked, refusing to be ignored.

"I have no idea," I lied.

"How odd," Madeline replied. "That's the third newspaper this week that has not been delivered. Shall I contact the Journal and inquire?"

"Do as you please," I muttered.

"Have Meg and Alexandre returned from the market?" she asked before I retreated to the dark, quiet confines of my room.

"Do you honestly think the house would be this silent if the two of them had returned home?"

"There is no need to be angry," Madeline said. "Merely a question."

"You do not question me, Madame," I warned.

I waited a moment for her to apologize, but instead I was met with silence and the affirmation that she knew her place. She served me. They all did. We were no longer friends and we certainly were not family. She had a home to live in with her daughter and son-in-law, plentifully amounts of food and clothing and funds to spend as she wished because I deemed it so. At any moment I could have excused the lot of them, tossed them out onto the streets of Paris and locked the doors. They would begged for me to reconsider.

But I was merciful, something rarely shown to me by others in my lifetime. No one would have ever guessed I had a benevolent side. No one would have ever thought of me, the Opera Ghost, as a decent man. No, I was a monster, a creature straight from the bowels of Hell.

"Erik," Madeline said as reached for the banister.

I paused but did not turn to face her.

"You have not been yourself lately," Madeline continued.

I snorted at her words. "Am I not the same belligerent, unpleasant, abhorrent bast...individual you have known most of your life?"

"Please, do not say such awful things. You do not eat, you barely sleep, you spend all of your time in your room with the door locked, you-"

"Is this not my home paid for out of my own funds?" I grumbled.

Yes, but-"

"Then I shall do as I damned please, Madame Giry, and you will think twice before questioning me ever again, is that understood?"

Madeline did not readily answer, and even though I did not see her face, I could picture the disappointment in her expression.

"I am worried about you," she said quietly.

"You needn't worry for me a moment longer."

"I will always worry about you," she said. "And for Alexandre."

My jaw clenched and I whipped around to face Madame at last. "My every deliberation is with Alexandre in the forefront of my mind. Do not think for a single moment you understand my intentions."

"You are correct, Erik, I do not understand your intentions," she agreed. "And neither does your son."

I refused to waste another moment of my time listening to her. Letters in hand, I returned to my room and locked the door. With the lamp turned up and door secured, I tossed the letters onto my desk and pulled off my mask.

For a long moment I stared at my hideous reflection in the mirror, at the very reason I was forced into a life of solitude. This was the reason Christine had left me, this vile visage, with flesh so ruined it was not truly a face.

There was a small, open wound on my cheek where the mask rubbed below my eye. It was not the first time there had been a wound to my cheekbone, although I typically removed my mask long enough for the skin to breathe and the irritation to be kept at a minimum.

I could not recall when I had last slept with my mask off or how long it had been since I had cleansed the flesh that was often raw but not usually opened and tender. Eventually the wound would become infected and bleed freely, the skin turning fevered. I would feel my pulse through the back of my eye and into my temple.

Gingerly I felt along the damaged area and shivered. This face that my own father had struck and bruised until my eye swelled shut, this face that had been exposed for the entertainment of others paying to see the Living Corpse, that had been put on display in rock quarries and late nights in a palace to cause the sultan's wives to shriek and faint in horror.

This face, this truly terrible face. Somehow it had been made worse by my own neglect.

Madame was terribly wrong in her assumption that I was not myself. On the contrary, I should have told her, I was more myself now than ever before, consisting of anger and longing down to the marrow of my bones. The world saw nothing but my ugliness, but I was more than my scars.

This face, this wretched face, would never be seen by another soul ever again. I would be certain that my mask covered the wounds at all times, that no matter what, Alex and especially Christine would never see what I truly was beneath this small piece of leather. If it meant winning back Christine, if it meant keeping Alex, I would be certain they were not victims of such horrors. Pain and infection be damned, I would keep it covered for them. I would do anything for my son and his mother.

I was shaking in anger and self-imposed misery when I turned away from the mirror and tossed my mask onto my bed. A moment longer I would leave it off as no one would see me here in the dark. I blinked away the tears in my eyes and sat hard at my desk, fumbling with the key to the bottom drawer in my waistcoat pocket. I sat for a long moment with the desk drawer open and stared at the neat pile of articles and printed photographs of the woman I loved.

At last I pulled out the newspaper delivered that morning with Christine on the front page. She truly beamed, such a creature of light and love. Instinctively I drew my hand up to my face, unable to gaze upon her image with my naked flesh staring down at her.

And there I sat in the dark, so far from my angel, with tears of loneliness clouding my eyes.

I was myself. I was every bit myself. And I hated it.

"Christine," I whispered. "You must return to me. You are the only light worth seeking in this eternal darkness."


	3. One Moment

Chapter 3

Once I rounded the corner and started onto our street, my pace slowed to a near crawl. My little Bessie hound seemed to be at least twice as heavy as when I had left the market. With a sigh, I placed her between my feet and shook out my aching arms.

Sad, dark eyes looked up at me as though wondering why she had been deposited onto the street.

"Walk, girl," I commanded. I tapped on my leg and ran several steps ahead, and she bounded off...in the opposite direction of home.

Horrified, I dashed after her, surprised at how something so small could in fact be so quick.

"Bessie, no!" I yelled. "Come, girl! Come!"

I had always thought dogs instantly new commands, that they somehow possessed an innate understanding of sit, stay, and come, but this was obviously not the case. She looked back, overjoyed by our new game of chase, and ran full speed into a lamp post.

She hit the post head first, and proceeded to tumble along the sidewalk three or four full rotations before she came to an abrupt halt with all four legs splayed

The streets of Paris paused around me, onlookers gawking in horror as my lifeless puppy lay in a motionless heap.

I could feel everyone staring at me, horrified at what they had witnessed. This ignorant boy had chased his puppy to her death not even a half hour after obtaining this wriggling, joyous creature.

Tears welled in my eyes. I had no idea what I would tell my father as I delivered her lifeless body to his bedroom. He would be furious, I thought. First I had lied to Aunt Meg, then I had foolishly placed the puppy on the street, of all places, and lastly I had killed her.

Bile rose in my throat as I carefully picked up her still warm body and hugged her to my chest. I felt light-headed and sick to my stomach over the accident. Never before had I hurt any creature, not even the toads I found in the garden. I always made certain I placed them back where I found them-after scaring the daylights out of my aunt, of course.

"I did not intend for you to be killed," I whispered into the lifeless pup's long, soft ear. "My father would have loved you. He truly would have loved you, Bessie."

"Oh, how terrible," a young woman said. From the corner of my eye, I saw her shake her head.

It angered me that everyone looked on but no one could do anything for my innocent pup. How quickly I had fallen in love with her, and how quickly she had been taken away from me. I understood then what Meg meant when she told me I was the first person she loved instantly. That is how I had felt for my puppy; pure, boundless love.

I squeezed her tighter and heard a hiss of a breath leave her body. Startled, I shifted her in my grasp and did the only thing I could think of: I rubbed her belly and patted her back, similar to what my father did when I was not feeling well.

"I am here, Bessie," I whispered as I continued to walk toward my home. "Hold on, girl. Father will know what to do."

Her tail vibrated against my forearm while another squeak left her lungs.

"That's it," I said, encouraged by the signs of life. "That's it, girl, hold on. I promise Father will save you."

Father had to save Bessie. He had to. He had once told me that I came to him with my face so red that I looked like I would burst. I was starving and inconsolable, but somehow I had known he was my father and found my way back to him. Found like a helpless little kitten was how Meg had put it, and nurtured by my grandmere, my father, and of course Aunt Meg because she loved me instantly.

We reached the front steps and Bessie began to show much more promising signs of life. She kicked her stout legs and began licking at my throat as I hurried home. I turned the door handle and discovered the door locked. Much to my dismay, I had no key as I had no need for one when I was out with Aunt Meg.

The pup in my arms was supposed to be a surprise, and I could not possibly walk into the house with her wriggling in my grasp. The entire walk home I had been devising my plan of how I would present Bessie to my father, and each time it revolved around smuggling her into his room unnoticed.

My plan unraveled. Frantically I looked around, uncertain of what to do. Since she had run off and nearly murdered herself, I could not place her on the ground.

"What are we going to do, Bessie?" I asked under my breath.

"Alex?" a feminine voice called out.

I whirled around, both surprised and delighted to see Madame Julia with her daughter Lisette in tow.

Madame Julia lived behind our house. I visited her home when my studies were completed and Lisette was able to play in the back garden or on the corner of the street where no one could see us climb onto the stone fence and see who could jump the farthest.

Madame Julia reminded me of Meg in a way. They were both motherly, but Madame Julia had more roundness to her whereas Meg had been a dancer and was more lithe. When Madame Julia embraced me, it felt like hugging a warm pillow that smelled of sandalwood. Her hands were always very soft, and she ran her fingers through my hair like my father. She paid as much attention to me as she did to Lisette, and even though she was not my mother, I thought of her in that respect.

"What are you doing out here alone?" Madame Julia asked as she approached. She looked from me to my Bessie hound. "Where did you find that?"

"It's a surprise for Father," I answered.

Madame Julia was the only person outside of our home that Father knew. He visited her several nights a week because she fed him and listened to him talk about his music, which no one else ever did because it was quite boring.

"Oh, I am sure he will be very surprised," Madame Julia said.

"May I hold him?" Lisette asked.

"Her," I corrected.

"Only for a moment," Julia said.

Lisette practically tore the puppy from my grasp and buried her face in Bessie's soft fur. "Oh, she smells awful! But she is so sweet!" Lisette exclaimed.

Julia placed her hands on her hips and sighed. "Is your father home?" she asked me.

"Yes, of course," I answered. "It is far too early in the day for Father to leave."

"Have you knocked on the door?"

I shook my head. "I cannot allow him to see my surprise."

"Why don't you come around to our house and you can enter through the back garden?"

Lisette, who refused to let my smelly, sweet puppy go, and I followed Madame Julia around the corner to their home.

"Why were you out on the street alone?" Madame Julia asked as she unlocked the door to her home.

I explained to her how I went to market with Meg every Friday, and I asked to leave early so that I could surprise Father.

"Did Aunt Meg know you had a puppy?" she asked.

I bowed my head. "She did not."

Madame Julia placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You are very thoughtful," she said gently.

"Father needs a puppy," I said, attempting to justify my actions. "He needs…"

Me, I wanted to say. But he did not truly need me anymore. When he thought I was sound asleep, he would whisper to himself, "I could not bear to live another day without you, Alexandre." In recent weeks my father had proven that was not at all true.

"Oh, Alex, your father is need of cakes and cookies and his darling son bringing him a puppy," Madame Julia said as she bent, pushed my hair back, and kissed my forehead. She turned from me and said under her breath, "Your father is in desperate need of something."

"Do you think he will like my gift?" I asked, feeling desperate for reassurance.

Madame Julia wrapped several cookies in a cloth before she turned to face me. "Your father will absolutely love anything you bring to him because he adores you."

Her words were meant to sooth me, but I shrugged in response.

"I nearly killed the puppy," I confessed.

Lisette gasped. "Alex! How could you kill a sweet puppy!"

Madame Julia placed her hand over her heart. "My goodness, what happened?"

"My Bessie hound got away from me," I said. "She ran and bludgeoned herself on a lamp post."

Madame Julia gave a solemn nod. "You should probably let her rest for a bit then. Why don't you take her home? I am sure your father will know what to do."

Of course he would. My father knew everything. Well, almost everything. The only person in the house who knew absolutely everything was my grandmere. And Uncle Charles because he read all sorts of books and once taught at a university when his legs were able to hold him upright. But my father knew plenty and he would be able to care for the puppy and make certain her skull was not cracked like an egg.

Madame Julia sent me home with a half-dozen cookies meant for Father, but I ate one after I returned home and broke a second one in half, which I then ate because it seemed rude to present my father with a broken cookie.

Alone in the kitchen, I heard Grandmere humming to herself down the hall from her bedroom. Quiet as a mouse, I shut the kitchen door to keep Bessie contained and gave her a piece of the cookie that had broken off as well as a bowl of water, which she drank immediately. I sat on the floor with her and considered my options. Much to my disappointment, I felt a sinking sensation in my belly as I thought of every possible way my father could react to me entering his room with a dog in my arms.

He will love her, I told myself, but I felt much less convinced now that we were inside the house. With a sigh, I took up Bessie in my arms, opened the kitchen door, and trudged up to the top of the stairs.

I would tell him that I had found her near lifeless on the street, gravely injured from a knock to the head. He could not possibly be angry with me for saving her life. He would be proud of me, far too pleased to send Bessie away.

Breath held, I turned the doorknob, and to my surprise, the door opened effortlessly. Father was slumped over his desk, chin resting on the heel of his hand and his leather folder open.

"Alex," he said quietly.

Yes, Father," I meekly replied. My heart slammed against my ribcage as I sat on the edge of his bed and furiously pet Bessie, hoping somehow the rhythmic motion would calm both of us.

"You have finished with your studies for the day?"

"Not yet," I answered.

Father grunted. He scooted his chair forward instead of back and furiously wrote on the paper in front of him before he made a sound of displeasure and crossed out whatever he had written. He tapped the end of his pen on the paper while muttering to himself as he often did while composing.

"Market day?" he asked under his breath.

"Yes," I said. "I returned early."

Bessie began to squirm. Any moment now, I expected her to bark or make some other noise that would give me no other choice but to reveal my gift.

"Good," Father said.

There were many times when Father composed music and was so consumed by what he created that he did not speak for a straight hour. He would mutter under his breath, bob his head and move his lips, but he did not seem to notice anything else around him. Other times he would hold full conversations while he jotted down his notes and arranged melodies.

"Father," I said quietly.

"What is it?" he asked.

I could tell by his tone that he was not truly listening, yet still my heart beat so wildly in my chest I felt as though I would pass out. I could have said anything in that moment, and no matter how ludicrous, I was certain he would not know what I said.

"I had two cookies," I said. If he was listening, he would ask where I got cookies from or why I did not bring one upstairs. Sugar, Grandmere said, was Father's weakness. He could not resist desserts, not for as long as Grandmere had known Father.

But Father merely grunted, and I knew he had not heard what I said to him.

I waited patiently for him to look over his shoulder, to ask me how market was or why I had returned alone, but he did did not acknowledge me further. He continued scribbling whatever was on his mind, occasionally consulting the contents of his folder.

Bessie turned in a circle and curled up on the bed beside me, apparently bored from our exchange. I ran my hand from her neck down to her rump.

"Father," I said again.

"One moment, Alexandre."

How I dreaded those words more than anything else, the simple phrase that had shut me out. One moment to my father became an infinite span of time to me.

I considered asking my father to turn around, but I knew he would grumble that I was impatient, and I did not want him to be cross when he saw Bessie for the first time.

 _Father, I saw a man today selling puppies._

 _The last damned thing anyone in this house needs is a puppy. Honestly, Alexandre, why would you ever think to bring home a puppy?_

I winced at our imaginary exchange.

 _Father, I found this little dog in the street. I believe she was trampled by horses!_

 _Where was Aunt Meg?_

 _I asked to leave the market early._

 _She was foolish enough to allow you to wander wild on the streets? Tell her to see me at once! I will not have you walking like a vagrant on your own, do you understand? And take this dog out with you! Honestly, Alexandre!_

My throat tightened. In each scenario my father was not pleased with me. I looked at Bessie, who was sound asleep beside me, and feared Father would grab her by the scruff and toss her out the front door into the street where she truly would be trampled by horses.

He would be livid despite my good intentions, and grumble to himself and ask if I had ears because I did not listen to a word he said.

Sometimes, when I went through his desk in search of a clean sheet of paper, I would find old compositions with cruel words written across the top and in the margins. They were words my father never said to me nor to anyone else in the house, but he wrote them to himself. _Worthless. Wretched. Intolerable. Despised._ When he thought I was not around or when he forgot I was still in his room reading quietly to myself, he would mutter these words under his breath before he balled up the sheet of paper and threw it away. I hoped my father not only discarded the unfinished music, but the sentiment as well. My heart ached when he said such things to himself, such angry and untrue words.

"I love you," I said quietly as though I could remind my father that I found great worth in him. It was truly all I wanted to say to my father, to let him know that despite the weeks, which had turned into months, of silence between us, I loved him. More than anything. More than anyone.

"What are you muttering about?" he asked without turning.

"Nothing," I said.

"Nothing indeed." He groaned as he looked over his work and bunched his shoulders. Whatever he was writing had frustrated him. "Shouldn't you be studying?"

I didn't argue or protest or say a word. With Bessie sound asleep on the bed, I carefully stood as to not wake her and stared at the back of my father's head for a moment and considered draping myself across his thin shoulders and burying my face against his neck, but it would not be enough.

If I waited long enough, he would most likely forget I was ever in the room. He would continue scribbling down notes, pausing every so often with the music held between his thumb and index finger before he shook his head and started over.

A thousand times he would start his concerto or waltz or symphony. A thousand times he would peruse the newspaper with the photograph of the woman on the front. But he would not spare me a second to turn and acknowledge my words. Worthless, I thought to myself. Intolerable.

I left Bessie on the bed and quietly shut the bedroom door. It was not until I reached the bottom of the stairs that I heard my father say my name, which was followed by him muttering something unintelligible that I knew for certain meant he saw Bessie.


	4. Broken

Chapter 4

Long before Alexandre came into my life, long before I had ever heard his mother sing, I had felt as though there was something missing inside of me. On the outside I was well aware of my differences. My mother had stayed far from me and my father made certain I knew how much he detested the very sight of me.

Deep inside, I was broken and no one noticed.

In my youth, I was considered a freak of nature, sired by the devil himself. In a way I understood this was true as my father was the cruelest man I had known-at least up to a certain age when I learned there were different types of cruelty in the world.

Garouche, the man who ran the traveling fair, for instance, was similar to my father. I was accustomed to being treated with contempt, however, Garouche enjoyed the showmanship of stripping humanity from me six times a day, six days a week, for ten months. For several years after I escaped the fair, I enjoyed respite from being physically beaten and humiliated, but there was always a part of me left unhealed.

The fissure widened in Persia. Scars both inside and out were collected, and I learned the true meaning of what it was like to suffer. Nothing my father or Garouche did in my youth compared to the time spent in the palace.

But then I returned to Paris by some miracle. Filthy, starving and dehydrated, barefoot and nearly naked, I found my way back to music and darkness. I swore I would never leave the comfort of shadows and lightless halls of the Opera House. Music returned to me, numbness replaced the echoes of screams in courtyards and a perfumed room filled with corpses. Madeline asked me repeatedly what had happened, but when I looked into her eyes and saw her young daughter crouched behind her, I merely said I had been away.

Months passed. I spent hours sitting alone beneath the Opera House, barely able to breathe and trembling as horrific images vied for my attention. I looked at the lake, the surface so calm and serene that as much as I wanted to drown myself, I could not disturb its peace.

Then one night, restless and aching down to my bones, I ventured through the halls and heard a chorus girl praying in the chapel. Her voice was light and sweet, but filled with the sadness I recognized within myself.

Despite our first melancholy meeting, over the years Christine had brought light into the darkest of my days, and I convinced myself that she would somehow suture the deep wounds the rest of the world did not know existed. With each conversation that stretched from late at night until early in the morning, each time she sang for me and me alone, I felt as though I experienced life for the very first time.

She spoke of her father and how dearly she missed him and the time they spent together when he was still alive. She shared with me her laughter as well as her pain, and I wanted nothing more than to carry her sorrow. There was innocence to her, something I had lost long ago, and she trusted me, her Angel of Music, with her secrets. I was her angel, her savior, she called me, and she was mine. She told me everything, and I thought of what I would tell her of myself...eventually.

Every time I wanted to be more than a voice to her, I faltered. Each time I wished to step from the shadows, I pulled myself back. She would not accept me, I told myself. No one would ever accept such a treacherous beast.

I had been correct.

Sending her away had been no different than rupturing my eardrums. The loss did not stop my heart from beating, but for weeks after she left, I longed to close my eyes and never wake again. Without music, without Christine, there was nothing left of me.

And then Alexandre arrived. I had not truly known I wanted to be his father until he was nestled in my arms, and his very presence overwhelmed me with a sense of purpose. Once he was mine, I couldn't imagine ever being without him, and the longer we were together, the less I thought of my past and the more I thought of his future. I forgot how greatly I wanted to die as he became my reason to live.

From the moment he looked up into my eyes, I vowed my son would have all I was denied. He slept in a real bed with pillows and a coverlet, there were toys scattered throughout the house, and plentiful, warm meals. He was educated, wore perfectly tailored clothing, and had never experienced what it was like to be struck or shoved to the ground, much less beaten bloody.

Alex brought joy into my home, the likes of which I had never known existed. He had a habit of speaking inches from my face and tugging on my sleeve even when he had my full attention. He slammed doors, slid down the banister, had tantrums, and rifled carelessly through my desk drawers, but he was quick to smile and laugh. My son kept the darkness within me at bay simply by being in my life. The sound of his laughter and him calling my name quelled the sadness that followed me.

My son had the world laid at his feet and yet he still lacked maternal affection only Christine could provide for her first born. Alex deserved to have a mother and I much desired the companionship of a wife. Father, mother, and son together at last, would finally fill what was missing within me.

I had the newspaper set out before me with a letter from an opera house in Prague and the start of a symphony before me, inspired by Christine, when Alex quietly returned to my bedroom. I saw him from the corner of my eye, arms crossed over his chest and head down. The papers on my desk rustled once the door opened, held down by my leather folder.

"Alex," I said, acknowledging him as much as I could while in the middle of composing.

"Yes, Father," he whispered.

I smiled inwardly and continued writing until the ink was nearly gone from the nib of my pen.

"You have not finished with your studies for the day?"

"Not yet," he said with a sigh.

Depending on the subject, he either loved attending studies or dreaded his day spent with Charles. I wondered if Monsieur Lowry would continue to tutor my son once Christine returned. He was very close to Aex, but being confined to a wheelchair would make it difficult for him to travel across Europe.

I grunted and scooted closer to the desk as I looked over my composition and played back the notes in my head. I struck through a bar, dissatisfied with my work, and struggled to keep my train of thought while still speaking with my son.

"Market day?" I absently asked.

He didn't need to answer my question as he smelled of livestock. Meg often allowed him to practically ride on the backs of cattle from what Alex excitedly told me once they returned for the day. He had inherited my appreciation for aninmals and sometimes returned home with small scratches from kittens he found on the street. A time or two, while in the garden, he carefully brought toads inside to show me, but always returned them to their homes and built them tiny fences out of rocks and castles with dirt.

"Yes," he answered. "I returned early."

"Good," I said.

The photograph of his mother caught my attention and I looked it over, hoping she would fuel my creativity so I could continue with the symphony. I imagined her sitting beside Alex, her arm draped over his shoulder as she ran her fingers through his curls of hair. She would wonder how she ever existed without him, and Alex would wonder how he lived without hearing her voice say his name.

Alex had lived eight years without his mother. I held my breath and thought of my own mother, long since dead, and wondered if she regretted ignoring me. I wondered if she ever considered running down the cellar steps to rescue me, her lonely, frightened son curled up in the corner. Her world was impenetrable, and I had never been allowed at her side. I had always felt as though I missed her, but I did not know why.

Christine would rescue the two of us in a different way. I longed to see her face and hear her voice, to return to the time in which she willingly came to speak with me. Surely she could not easily forget the years in which she sat in the chapel, sometimes weeping, sometimes in a fit of anger, but always in search of her angel.

I regretted that she had seen me. Our lives would have been different if I had stayed an angel to her, but she had seen my terrible face. The horror in her beautiful eyes, the way her features twisted as she stared at my ruined flesh, had hurt worse than being beaten or flogged. I had ruined her love for me. I had ruined everything.

"Father?"

My son's voice caught me by surprise. I had almost forgotten he was within my bedroom. "What is it?"

Eight years and the agony was still quite fresh. Perhaps the image in her mind had dulled after all this time and she would not recoil when she saw me again. Perhaps she would think of how she embraced me in those last moments within the Opera House, how her lips pressed to mine and I wept out of joy and gratitude. For one brief moment, she accepted me.

She had loved me enough to gift me with our son. She had given me a reason to exist in the world when I longed to disappear forever. I wanted nothing more than the words I had Madeline run in the paper to be true. _Erik is Dead_. I could not fathom how I had survived all of these years, but I knew I lived to see Christine once more.

Her love for Alex would extend to me with time. I would compose the music that she would sing, and she would love me not for what I was on the outside, but for who I wanted to be on the inside. Together, we would create beauty that would sustain both of us. My grief would come to an end and at last she would heal what had been broken for far too long. She would give my music a voice like no other, and through her I could live rather than simply exist.

"Father?"

"One moment, Alexandre," I said, barely able to speak past the lump in my throat.

For so long I had lived in isolation, but the weight of my loneliness had become worse in recent months. For years I had lived separated from everyone and everything, five cellars beneath the earth in my own private domain. I left when I desired and wandered at will, but now….now my life was different. Now I stayed mostly within my bedroom while the rest of my home was occupied. I could hear the conversations within the rooms on the lower floor; Charles reading the paper to his wife, Madeline singing as she cleaned, Meg telling Alex that him licking the spoon was their secret.

I was surrounded by their lives but they were not part of mine. My separation from others was palatable, thick as a brick wall keeping me away. Everything inside of me from my lungs and heart to my bones ached with grief. Christine and I would cure one another, and once she returned to Paris, she would see how we belonged together, two broken parts at last made whole. Of this I was absolutely certain.

Alex said something under his breath.

"What are you muttering about?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing indeed." I closed my eyes and took a breath, having no desire for him to sit in my bedroom while I was in a dark mood and even less desire to argue with him. "Shouldn't you be studying?"

He did not answer me. Sometimes, for reasons that were his own, Alex enjoyed simply sitting upon my bed. He would swing his legs in order to make the bed creak, and as much as the sound grated on my nerves, I rarely asked him to stop. He radiated joy with the way he flung his arms around me and excitedly told me about the most gruesome details of his studies for the day, particularly when it came to matters of medical conditions and embalming.

I could not recall the last time Alexandre had flung the door open and began speaking with such enthusiasm that I had no choice but to stop in the middle of an aria and turn to face him. In the back of my mind I could see him wrinkle his nose as he spoke of ancient Egyptian embalming techniques and how he wished to become an embalmer one day.

The sound of the door shutting barely registered. I filled my pen with ink once more, started to write again, and paused.

"Alex?" I said, almost as an afterthought.

I swore he had left the room, but heard a distinct sound behind me. Twisting in my seat, I looked to where my son had been seated and saw a tiny, tri-colored ball of fur in his place. A puppy, appearing far too small to be away from its mother, pawed at the air and inched closer to the edge of the mattress. One more step, and the damned thing would fall head first onto the floor.

"What in the…" I started to say. The scrawny pup jumped forward and I stood quickly, flinging my arms out. She stopped, took a step back, and squatted down to where I thought she had decided to sit. Instead, she promptly urinated on my bed.

000

I was far too shocked to be livid by the pup's need to empty her bladder. As swiftly as I could, I plucked her from the bed, tore off the coverlet before urine soaked through to the sheets, and gathered it into a heap on the floor. Once she was in my arms, the puppy wriggled and kicked at my ribs until she managed to lick my chin and ear.

"Enough," I grumbled, but she insisted on licking me yet again, and the sensation of her warm tongue against my chin and throat elicited an unexpected chuckle from me.

"What are you doing?" I asked as I looked down at her large, dark eyes.

She, of course, could offer no other answer besides a wagging tail and grunts of determination in licking me repeatedly and breathing in my ear.

There is something to be said for the enthusiastic affection of a dog. I managed to roll her onto her back where she immediately ceased wriggling and gazed up at me, all four legs in the air and long ears dangling.

She fit in my grasp much like Alexandre had when he was an infant, which seemed appropriate since my son had brought her home. By instinct alone I rocked her back and forth in order to keep her calm.

"Were you a stray?" I whispered. "Impossible. A fine hound such as yourself would not be wandering the streets, would you? What did Alexandre pay for you, hmm? And where on earth did he obtain the funds?"

Her tail wagged faster every time I spoke, and she managed to pull herself up enough to lick my shirt before she flopped over. I took a seat at my desk and she put her front paws on my shoulder and nipped at my mask.

With the bedroom door shut, I pulled up my mask to keep her from chewing on it. Immediately she sniffed and nuzzled my damaged cheek, heedless to my monstrous flesh. Every muscle in my body tightened as she nudged me with her cold, damp nose and explored my grotesque features. She licked my eyelid and laved my forehead with her tongue, and the sensation made me shiver.

Dark eyes stared back at me while the white tip of her tail wagged back and forth.  
Not a single horse, mule, cat or dog had ever been apprehensive of me, at least not that I could recall, and this pup was no different. She very well would have continued to lick my face and nibble my collar, but with the wound to my cheek throbbing, I pulled her back down and wiped my face with my handkerchief before returning my mask to its rightful place.

"I have work to do," I said as I set her onto the rug, where she immediately placed her nose to the ground and furiously sniffed her way around the room. A time or two she stepped on her ears, but nothing deterred her from finding her way beneath my bed.

"Come," I commanded.

Items beneath my bed rustled as she tracked whatever scent had garnered her attention.

"Dog," I called. "Come here at once."

I heard her sneeze before she walked over a stack of papers I had forgotten about. She growled before deciding to tear the papers apart.

Immediately I dropped to the ground on all fours and peered beneath the bed to find her up against the wall and out of my reach with the ripped corner of a forgotten sheet of music in her mouth.

"Dog," I said tersely. "Come here at once."

She had the audacity to press herself further against the wall and from my reach. Annoyed, I stood and grabbed the wooden post at the end of the bed and dragged the frame toward the center of the room. I stepped around, looked in between the bed and the wall, and found the spot where the dog had situated herself empty aside from some torn scraps of paper a cufflink that had been missing for months, and a button most likely from a coat.

Again I dropped to the ground and watched as she trotted happily across the room and beneath my desk where she began to chew on the leg of my chair, all the while eyeing me as her tail wagged.

"No," I said as I climbed to my feet and stalked toward her. "Do not chew on that."

For such a small pup, she was remarkably fast, and the moment I reached beneath the desk to grab her by the scruff, she took off running back beneath my bed and slid into the wall with a yelp.

"Dog," I said yet again, patience waning. "Come. Here."

To my surprise, she bounded toward me. I managed to grab hold of her tail at first, then held her by the scruff and keep her from scurrying away to create more havoc. Once I released her, she turned over onto her back and playfully bit my shirt sleeve with her razor sharp teeth while she growled in the least-threatening way I'd ever heard.

Seeing her there on her back, ears spread out and tail wagging as she wrestled with my sleeve made me shake my head and grunt.

"That is quite enough," I said.

The dog, of course, did not agree.

"Erik?" Madeline said as she opened my bedroom door and cautiously stepped inside. "What was that loud noise? Did you move the-" She stopped mid-sentence once she spotted me crouched down on the ground and gasped. "My goodness, what happened? Are you injured? Did you fall?"

"No, I am fine," I said with my jaw clenched as puppy teeth sank into my thumb. With my free hand, I pried the pup's jaws open and shook out my throbbing hand..

Madeline immediately picked up her skirts and marched toward me, stopping once she saw the puppy on her back with her teeth holding fast to my trousers.

Madeline's lips parted and eyes grew wide as she stared unblinking at the ball of fur. The pup didn't notice Madame as she was far too preoccupied with her task of growling as she tugged on my trouser leg with such enthusiasm that I was somewhat surprised the fabric did not rip.

":What is this?" Madeline asked, sounding far more horrified than seemed necessary.

"What is this indeed." Nothing could have irritated me more highly than such a ridiculous question.

"Where did he come from?"

" _She_ came from Alexandre."

Madeline placed her hand over her heart as though this was the most unbelievable news she had heard all day. "Alex? But he is with Meg at the market."

"Alex returned early."

Madeline dramatically gasped. "What are you going to do with it?"

"I have not yet decided."

"Where is Alex?"

"I have no idea."

Madeline furrowed her brow and shook her head. "Why would Alexandre do such a thing?"

"Because he is a child."

"Yes, but-"

"I assure you, Madame, I have no answers to any of your questions," I snapped.

Madeline pursed her lips. "This is…"

Ridiculous, I wanted to say, and completely unexpected, and yet I was not furious with my son for bringing home a living creature without permission. Of course, my sensible side would have told him absolutely not had he mentioned bringing home a dog.

"I beg your pardon?" I gruffly questioned over my shoulder as I picked up the pup and held her against my chest. She rested her head on my forearm, clearly exhausted from her antics.

"You look as comfortable with a puppy in your arms as you did with Alex when he was a baby," Madeline commented. She smiled as she looked me over.

I grunted at her words. "The very last thing I need in the world is a damned dog. She has already urinated on my bed, tore through papers, and chewed on my chair."

Five minutes into my discovery and I was already exhausted.

"Should I take her somewhere?" Madeline asked.

The pup sighed heavily and closed her eyes. I found myself running my free hand down the length of her long body from the base of her skull to her tail, then along her velvety soft ear draped over my wrist. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the oval mirror.

It was the first time I had seen the full length of my reflection in weeks, and while I had never truly been satisfied with the man staring back at me, I felt my breath hitch in my throat. I had always been tall and thin, but it had been many years since I had looked so terribly gaunt. I was almost certain that if not for the mask, I would not have recognized myself.

The pup was underweight as well, each notch in her spine visible and ribs protruding. Perhaps she was the runt of the litter pushed out by larger, stronger pups and eventually discarded. At her size, she would not survive more than a few days on the streets of Paris. Alone and starving, she would most certainly be easily preyed upon by larger dogs or cruel men.

I knew what it was like to be preyed upon by cruel men. I had never forgotten what it was like to be placed in chains and caged.

"Take her…" I started to say, but I stopped myself and cleared my throat. "Take her downstairs at once, put something decent in her belly, and find Alexandre. Instruct him to give this filthy creature a bath and then tell him he is to see me once she is clean and dry."

Madeline stared back at me as though my words did not register. "Erik…? Are you keeping the dog?" she asked.

In my mind, I answered, "Of course not," but my tongue refused to finish the sentence. I handed the drowsy pup to Madeline, who held her out in the air like she would have a soiled diaper.

"Of course," I said aloud. "As long as Alexandre takes full responsibility for his new pet."

Madeline gaped at me, but her expression slowly turned to a smile before she nodded and turned away. I wasn't sure who was more surprised by my words, but nothing further was said. Madeline took the pup downstairs, I closed the bedroom door, and for two hours I waited for my son to come into my room and explain himself. Given how long it took for him to come to me, I expected he had conjured up quite the excuse.


	5. A Boy and His Dog

Chapter 5

I was a terrible child for running off, but in the heat of the moment I did not care. Once I heard my father say my name, I realized the depth of trouble I could potentially be in for bringing a mongrel into the house. I bolted out the front door and down the street, tears clouding my eyes and no destination in mind. I would run until I ran out of breath or until I passed the city limits. I would run until my boots fell off my feet or my legs give out.

Despite my dramatic intentions, I bolted out the door and made it as far as the end of the street when Aunt Meg called out to me. Startled, I paused, wiped the back of my hand across my tear-filled eyes, and saw her hurry up to me.

"Why are you running?" she asked. "And why are you crying?"

"I am not crying," I whimpered.

"What is wrong?" she asked as she pressed my head to her chest and wrapped her arms around me.

I could not possibly tell Aunt Meg the truth. She would be furious with me and I could not bear both my father and aunt being cross with me.

"Alex?" she said sternly. "Why aren't you home?"

"I was," I answered carefully.

Aunt Meg drew back and placed her hands on my shoulders. "Tell me at once."

Involuntarily my bottom lip began to quiver and I shook my head, afraid my emotions would get the best of me.

With a sigh, she ran her hands from my shoulders down to the middle of my arms and back up again. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"I forgot to pick up rosemary and there is none in the garden. And I want something sweet from the bakery."

We walked together in silence for half a block before Aunt Meg released a heavy, dramatic sigh and looked at me. "Oh, Alex, what will I do with you?"

I made no reply. Instead I stared at the street and scuffed my soles along the cobblestones and felt quite sorry for myself and the predicament I had gotten myself into, which now seemed much worse than I had anticipated.

To my surprise, Aunt Meg made no attempt to pry a confession from me. She hummed to herself and walked along with a spring to her step that made me feel worse as the seconds ticked by.

"Did I ever tell you about how I walked in from the market and first saw you?"

Although there slight changes in her telling of the story, for the most part I could quote Aunt Meg word-for-word. Given how she absolutely loved telling me this story, I did not dare interrupt.

"The market was extremely crowded," Aunt Meg said. "I nearly had my toes crushed by a cart being pulled through too narrow a space and that put me in quite the mood."

Had we been home,Grandmere would have made a face behind her daughter's back and rolled her eyes, and I would have smiled.

"I was tired, my arms were sore from carrying so many heavy bags in the rain, and all I wanted was a cup of hot tea to warm me inside and out, but do you know what happened?"

Of course I did. She had told me the story a hundred times, but her question was rhetorical.

"I returned home and your grandmere immediately told me to turn around because we needed diapers and bottles. Can you imagine my surprise? Why would we need diapers and bottles?"

I grinned back at her. "Me!"

"Yes, you!" Aunt Meg gave my arm a shake and laughed. "I went back to the market, picked up supplies, and when I returned home, there you were, no bigger than a puppy, screaming as though you were being murdered."

The reference to a puppy made me lower my gaze even though Aunt Meg had fluctuated between saying I was no bigger than a kitten or a puppy. She hadn't used kitten as a size reference in quite some time as Father had grumbled that I was in fact much bigger than a kitten. He typically pointed this out from behind the newspaper so that Aunt Meg could not see his devious smile or the way he winked at me once she was flustered by his words.

"And despite those wails and you carrying on something awful, I saw you in your father's arms and my heart stopped. Right then and there, soaked to the bone and with my arms full of diapers and bottles, I saw your little round, red face and eyes pinched shut, and I was in love. You were absolutely perfect."

"How long was it before Father allowed you to hold me?" I impatiently asked.

Aunt Meg gave me a sideways look. "Who is telling this story, Alexandre?"

"You are, Aunt Meg," I groaned.

"For two weeks I listened to you cry when you needed fed or changed. And do you know how often you cried?"

I knew, but I still shook my head.

"You cried every two hours for thirty seconds. Your father knew your routine so well that he had Grandmere heat bottles before you were hungry so that you did not need to wait, and he changed you the moment you were wet. You could have set a watch to the way he cared for you."

Even though I did not remember being that small, I knew my father was always beside me or at his desk watching over my every move. Both Aunt Meg and Grandmere quickly reminded him that they were concerned I would never learn to walk as he carried me everywhere when I was very young and doted on me as though I were the next emperor of France.

"Two weeks after the stork dropped you off, you were awake so frequently that your father was up caring for you day and night, and although he protested fiercely, your gramdere convinced him that we could care for you. He was truly so exhausted and afraid to have you out of his sight for one moment, but you know how Grandmere is, don't you?"

I did. Very much so. If anyone could pursued Father, it was Grandmere.

"She took you from his arms, told him to rest, and once he reluctantly retired for the night, Grandmere handed you to me."

How I wished I could recall that moment Aunt Meg so vividly remembered, the night I was placed in her arms for the very first time. Her description always left me breathless. The way she looked into my eyes, smiled sweetly as she spoke, and clasped her hands at the end of the story signified how much she truly loved me.

"I had never held a baby before," she told me. "But you were the most perfect baby to hold in my arms. You had such beautiful little hands, chubby little arms and legs, and round cheeks. And your eyes...my goodness, such lovely eyes. And your hair! Those thick curls and long eye lashes. Oh, I wanted to eat you."

I said what I always said at that part of the story. "You can't eat babies!"

Aunt Meg chuckled and ran her fingers through my hair. "No, no, of course not. I sang you lullabies and we danced around the room, and when I twirled you around, you laughed and it was truly musical, which I of course expected because you are a very musical little boy."

"The stork said so," I added, which was something Grandmere would have said.

"Yes, you were born with music in your veins. Your very first laugh was all for me, like a song from your heart to mine, and I knew for certain I loved this little boy named Alexandre Jean."

She put her hand against the back of my head, pulled me closer, and kissed my forehead. The safety and warmth of her touch made me close my eyes and smile.

"Your father took you back a few hours later, but he was quite pleased his beloved son was returned to him in one piece, which meant I was allowed to take you for a few hours every day. Quite frankly, I think your father worried I would run away with you because he knew I was quite smitten with you."

"Or eat me," I added.

"Nibble only," she teased. "But no matter what, I will always love this little boy standing next to me. You are my heart, Alexandre."

The heart should not lie, I knew. The heart should be open and honest. I dreaded having to tell her the truth, but I owed her that much for loving me as she did.

"Aunt Meg?"

"Yes, my love?"

"May I tell you something?"

"You may tell me anything at all. You know this."

I braced myself and took a deep breath. Aunt Meg would love me no matter what. She had said so herself. "I brought Father a puppy this afternoon."

We stopped in the middle of the street for a long moment with people hustling past us, most of whom looked quite annoyed as they had to walk around us. Aunt Meg stared at me as though the words did not quite register or she wished to rearrange them into something that had a completely different meaning, but failed miserably.

"You brought your father…"  
"A puppy. A Bessie hound puppy."

Her eyes narrowed. "A B _asset hound?_ "

"No," I said, drawing the word out. "A Bessie hound."

Aunt Meg sighed. "And where did you obtain a Bessie hound?" she asked.

"The market," I answered, finding no use in lying.

"The market?"

"When I asked you for money..."

"Oh, Alex," she admonished. "Why would you do such a thing?"

I had nothing further to say and so I bowed my head and sat in silence. Neither one of us spoke for a moment. Aunt Meg sighed several times to show her displeasure and I did not dare look up to meet her eye.

"What did you with the puppy?" she asked at last.

"I left her in Father's bedroom."

Aunt Meg stared blankly at me for half a moment, then grabbed me by the arm and tugged me in the direction we had come from. "We must make haste, Alexandre, and you best hope your father does not murder us both."

0o0

Father often described Aunt Meg as an "utterly ridiculous girl prone to grave exaggeration." The way in which Aunt Meg led me home seemed to be one such incident as I was certain Father would not murder either of us. I also wanted to ask why we would return if Father would in fact kill the two of us, but I was already in enough trouble for the time being and did not want to add to Aunt Meg's anger.

Once our home was within sight, Aunt Meg considerably slowed her pace and walked solemnly toward the front door with me in tow. A funeral march, I thought to myself. We were headed to our dramatic deaths.

"Heaven help us," she said under her breath before she unlocked the front door. The moment the door swung open, Aunt Meg gasped, and I had to crane my neck to look around her where Father stood in the foyer with his arms crossed.

Aunt Meg and Father were like two statues frozen across the foyer from one another. I looked from Aunt Meg's terrified visage to my father, whose gaze flickered in my direction long enough to bore through me before he turned his attention back to my aunt.

"Madame Lowry," Father growled.

"I can explain," Aunt Meg blurted out.

Father's expression turned from stern to momentarily amused as his lips quirked into a smile. I had not seen him show mirth for weeks, and that fleeting heartbeat of a forgotten expression made me quite hopeful that Father was not as upset as Aunt Meg suspected.

Father gave an exaggerated flourish. "Then by all means, Madame Lowry, explain."

Aunt Meg protectively put her arm around me. "He is a child," she said, which was by no means an answer to why there was a puppy in the house.

"An insolent child at that," Father snapped. He glanced at me again, but as much as he attempted to keep his eyes hardened, the look in his gaze was familiar again.

"I will dispose of it," Meg offered.

"Aunt Meg, no!" I cried out. I pulled away from her and grabbing a hold of her hand. "No, you cannot dispose of her! Please! Please do not hurt her! She is so tiny!"

Aunt Meg's lip quivered as she turned her head to the side and looked down at me. "Alex, please do not make this harder than necessary. You know how your father is."

"She is a gift! You can't do this! You can't!" I yelled.

"Alex-"

"Enough, Madame Lowry," Father commanded. "You are excused. I will handle the boy."

Aunt Meg inhaled sharply and looked from Father to me as though she wished to remain at my side. She frowned and eventually bowed her head before she turned from me.

I would be remiss if I did not say I was slightly taken aback by Father referring to me as _the boy_. Most often he called me Alexandre, followed by Alex, and lastly Alexandre Jean when I was not listening at all, but he had never referred to me as simply _the boy_. I did not know how to react to his words, and so I simply stood by the front door while Aunt Meg's hand slid out of mine and she gazed over her shoulder at me one last time. The look in her eyes did nothing for my confidence, and once she was down the hall and out of sight, I prepared for the worst.

In all honesty, when it came to my father's wrath, he stomped about, slammed doors, and muttered under his breath until Grandmere told him to watch his language, however, I could not recall a single time where he had done anything else, aside from perhaps accidentally break a coffee cup when it fell off his desk. I considered myself partially to blame as I had connected all of the notes in his music with squiggly lines, and when he discovered my art work on a concerto he intended to send out that same day, he was not pleased to have to write it out again.

"Look at me, Alexandre," Father said sharply once we were alone. "And tell me why there is a dog in my home."

I looked up briefly at the man I loved dearly who had become an enigma. "There was a man selling puppies," I said. "I wanted to bring you a gift and the Bessie hounds were all I could think of giving you."

Father's expression softened and he looked away from me. "Bessie hound?" he asked.

"That is what she is."

"She is a Basset hound."

"But the man said-"

"Clearly you misunderstood what he said and I will not spend another second of my time arguing with you, is that understood?"

"Yes, Father," I said obediently. "But she is a fine dog, no matter the breed" I added.

"She is a bag of bones and not worth a single franc."

Tears clouded my eyes and I pursed my lips to prevent myself from whimpering. She was worth far more than what I had paid to bring her home and heal this unconscionable rift between my father and I.

"I think she is beautiful," I said. "She is small and fragile, but she is beautiful to me. I don't care what anyone says."

My father's lips parted and remorse flitted through his gaze.

"Erik," Grandmere said softly. "The pup has been fed and I put her outside to do her business."

I looked up and saw Grandmere walk out of the kitchen with my Bessie in her arms. The moment she spotted me, she began to whine and struggle to be placed on the ground.

"Wait, wait," Grandmere said before she placed the wriggling ball of wrinkles onto the runner. "Now you may run to your master."

I bent down to call Bessie to me, hoping to show my father how much Bessie and I loved one another, but rather than run to me, she scrambled down the hall, into the foyer, and jumped on my father's leg where she pawed at him for attention. Her betrayal was still somewhat charming, and I smiled as she fell backwards and tried again. Father looked down, unfolded his arms, and began to reach for her before he stopped himself.

"Who will take care of this pathetic creature?" Father asked as he looked down at the helpless pup. He ignored her whines and continued requests to be picked up. With his hands on his hips, he ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and looked at me.

"I will," I vowed.

"You will feed her three times a day and provide water?"

I nodded.

"You will walk and bathe her?"

"Yes, I will do anything."

"You will clean up whatever mess she makes?"

Given that she was so tiny, I doubted she could make much of a mess.

"I will do anything. I swear, Father. Please do not harm her!"

Bessie threw back her head and howled, determined to be picked up at last. For a pup of her size, she had quite the powerful vocal ability.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, will you stop tormenting this poor creature?" Grandmere said. "Shame on you for ignoring her."

Father's eyes grew wider and he lifted his chin, staring down his nose at Grandmere. "I do beg your pardon, Madame?"

Out of all the people in the house, Grandmere was the only person who would dare speak to Father in such a manner. She scoffed at his question, gathered her skirts, and marched toward Father where she bent, scooped up Bessie, and held the pup against his chest, giving him no choice but to take her into his arms or watch her fall to the ground. Slowly Father's expression of annoyance softened as Bessie licked his hand and wrist. Her tail wagged so fast it appeared as nothing more than a blur beating against Father's forearm.

"Thus far I am not impressed with your caretaking abilities of a living creature," Father said as he turned his face to the side to keep Bessie from kissing his White Face. "First you bring a filthy mongrel into my house without permission."

"I apologize," I meekly answered.

"Then you left her on my bed where she urinated everywhere."

My lips parted. I had already apologized once and was not certain what else to say. "I did not know she would urinate on your bed."

"Regardless of what you thought would happen, she most certainly did. And then you left the house alone in an apparent attempt to keep yourself out of trouble."

Had Father not been holding a wriggling and quite determined pup, he would have looked far more imposing. He finished speaking in a much softer tone that seemed to match the rhythmic stroke of his hand down Bessie's spine.

Soft, dark puppy eyes looked up at my father and he looked back down at her. Absently he ran her long ear between his fingers and scratched under her chin.

"I do not care for dogs," he said, although his voice lacked conviction. "She will sleep outside, is that understood? And if you do not provide food and water, she will die of thirst or starvation. I will not have her interfering with my composing nor will I shed a single tear if you do not properly for her and she is dead by morning."

"I can keep her then?"

"We shall see."

I nodded readily. "Yes, Father."

I took a step forward, expecting Father would at last hand her over to me, but he continued to pet her. His eyes narrowed as he ran his fingers over her skull.

"Her skull is somewhat...misshapen," he said quietly.

"She was nearly killed," I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"She hit her head and I thought she had died."

Father paused. He gently touched the knot on Bessie's head and sighed to himself. "How in the hel...world did that happen?"

I explained how she ran into a pole and Father furrowed his brow, muttering under his breath that she was even more pathetic than he first thought.

"The man at the market was going to drown her because she was too small and no one wanted her," I explained. "No one but me."

Father met my eye and nodded at last. "I suppose you taking her was for the best," he said at last.

"I think so too."

"And considering the hardships she has suffered thus far today, it would be advisable if she stayed inside for observation tonight," he said with a heavy sigh.

My heart nearly leapt out of my chest at those fateful words.

"May she sleep in my bedroom?" I asked.

Father straightened his spine and scowled at the thought. "On the floor. I will not have her on the bed, is that understood?"

I nodded at once, grateful for the mercy he showed Bessie. If she was good on her first night, perhaps Father would reconsider and allow her to sleep inside for a second night. Then a third. In a week he would forget the nonsense about her sleeping outside alone and she would be part of the family.

"But first you must give her a bath. She is absolutely filthy. The whole house will stink of dog."

"I will," I said, despite thinking she smelled fine. In that moment I would have agreed to almost anything. I reached out and motioned to my new puppy, who was still licking Father's wrist as she laid in his arms. "Come on, Bessie, it is time for a bath."

"Bessie," Father said. "Are you absolutely certain that is what you wish to call her?"

"That is her name," I insisted.

"Fine. It is your dog and you may name her whatever you wish."

"Thank you," I said. "She is a gift to you still, but I will care for her."

Grandmere smiled as I took Bessie from Father. "I will help you get her cleaned up," Grandmere said as she placed her hand on my shoulder and guided me down the hall.


	6. The First Night

Chapter 6

Meg was instructed to find a ragged blanket suitable for the dog to spend the night sleeping at the foot of Alexandre's bed, however, she brought a newer woolen blanket-one I was certain Madeline had ordered for me- and neatly folded it on top of the rug, which was quite extravagant and oversized for a runt such as the one Alexandre acquired.

"This is your bed," Alexandre explained softly as he knelt beside the puppy, who was far more interested in chewing one of the tassels on the rug than listening to her savior explain sleeping arrangements. "At least for tonight until you are healed. Then…" his voice trailed away and he scratched behind her long ear. "Then Father will build you a home of your own. A palace, Bessie! You will have your own palace!"

Once the two of them were situated for the evening, I walked into the kitchen for a glass of water and heard Madeline's distinct footsteps down the hall. Her left foot hit the ground harder than the right due to her bad knee, particularly when she refused to use her cane.

"You cannot leave that poor little thing outside by herself," she said firmly.

I made no reply and did not bother turning to face her. Ever since I had issued the baseless threat I had known the pup would not spend a single night outside. Given how she howled when I failed to pick her up immediately, she would keep the whole neighborhood awake and I had no desire to draw that much attention to our home.

"A larger animal will drag her away and kill her," Madeline said quite suddenly. "If Alex woke in the middle of the night and heard-"

"I am aware," I said before she finished. Quite frankly I found her dramatic reasoning exhausting.

"Do you intend to leave her somewhere once Alex falls asleep?" Madeline quietly asked.

My skin prickled at her inquiry and the insinuation I would be so cruel to a defenseless creature, especially an emaciated pup my son adored.

"You think I am a monster?" I asked.

"No, of course not-"

"Madame, I am not so callous as to take a dog from my son in the middle of the night and leave her to fend for herself," I said quietly. "This will not be my decision. If Alex properly cares for this creature then she may stay, however, if he decides the burden is far too much to bear…"

"Alex will not be able to care for a dog on his own," Madeline said gently. "He will need your assistance."

I could picture the two of us together in my bedroom with the dog asleep at our feet as Alex excitedly told me about his studies and I reviewed my latest symphony before playing for the two of them. I could almost hear that tiny pup as she threw her head back and howled along with my violin. Alex would find it tremendously amusing and most likely encourage her antics.

"That helpless little thing is very fond of you," Madeline commented.

I felt a tug on my trouser leg and looked down to find the pup had found her way out of Alexandre's room and followed me into the kitchen where she had once again decided to wrestle with my pant leg. I sighed at her enthusiastic play style, complete with wagging tail and a low growl as she shook her head-and my pant leg-back and forth.

"She is a nuisance," I muttered as I picked her up. "And should be asleep for the night."

"Perhaps she needs to go out one last time?" Madeline suggested.

"She must have a bladder the size of a thimble." I carried the pup outside and placed her in the grass where she immediately scampered off through Meg's garden. Plants rustled as she trampled through them, zipping in between tomato plants and a row of lettuce before she appeared a moment later to squat and then race toward me again. In the dark I couldn't tell if the garden was any worse for wear, but Meg would undoubtedly groan about any damage done come morning and voice her displeasure as she stomped through the house.

I glanced up as Bessie approached and saw the flicker of candlelight in Julia's bedroom. Why I noticed her invitation at all I have no idea as I had fallen behind on my composing and I wished to read through the numerous articles I had saved from the newspaper, but I could not ignore the meager flame.

I had seen Julia four days earlier, but our evening had been brief. We discussed-or rather I talked about while Julia politely nodded-Christine's continued success on the stage and her pending return to Paris. I was in the middle of discussing which of my arias I would have liked to hear Christine sing when Julia abruptly stood, yawned quite loudly, and mentioned she had a horrible headache and thought it would be best for me to return home.

Perhaps she wished to make up for the previous evening, I thought as I returned the pup inside and handed her to Madeline.

"Take her back to Alexandre," I requested.

Madeline looked me over but didn't dare ask what I was doing, most likely because she was already aware and disapproved. She wordlessly turned away with Bessie in her arms and disappeared down the hall, offering little more than a shake of her head.

Once she was gone, I turned to glance at my reflection in the kitchen mirror above the sink. I ran my hands over my hair and smoothed it back, making myself as presentable as possible for an evening visit to Julia's home.

A glance turned into several long moments of studying my masked face. My mask did not fit as it should as my cheeks had lost what fullness had once been present. I tried pushing it upwards and adjusting the wire around the back of my head, but it was in vain.

I would remedy this before Christine arrived and hope that in the meantime Julia made no mention of it.

With nothing else to do, I quietly slipped through the back door, down the path and through the gate where I paused at Julia's back door. The knob turned in my grasp, and when I cracked the door open, I was greeted by the scent of cinnamon and a rush of warm air from the oven. I inhaled deeply, drawn to the welcoming smell of Julia's home.

"Erik?" Julia called. She appeared a moment later in the kitchen doorway with her hair loose over her shoulders and cheeks flushed.

There was something quite alluring about Julia when she had her hair down at the end of the day. No one else saw her at this hour of the night with her face freshly cleaned and unbraided hair in waves. She was mine then, lovely as ever and always pleasantly surprised to see me.

"How are you?" she asked when she caught me staring appreciatively at her.

"Irritated," I answered.

Julia merely smiled."Oh? Does it have anything to do with a puppy?"

"I beg your pardon? How did you know?"

"Alex showed me and Lissy."

"When?"

"On his way home from the market. He was locked out of the house, so I allowed him to walk through here and into your house through the back door."

Alex, the sneaky boy, had conveniently kept this information from me.

"Quite clearly I am the last damned person to know what comes into my home," I groused. "Even the neighbors know my business before I do."

"He was very excited," Julia said, completely ignoring my tone. "And worried as well."

"He should have been worried."

Julia clasped her hands and looked me over. "Why is that?"

"Because…"

Because he was far too much like me skulking about. Because he had gone behind my back, willful child, and left behind a dog.

Because I had steadily lost him over the last few months and I no longer knew him as I once did. For years I could predict his every move. I did not need to look at him in order to reach out and run my hand over his head; he was always easily within reach. I had found comfort in his presence, in knowing that when I called his name, he hopped up the stairs, grabbed my arm, and draped it over his shoulder as he slid beside me.

Julia placed her hand on my arm and ushered me into the parlor. "He has been so melancholy lately," she said.

Her observation angered me as I knew all too well that her words were true.

"He wants for nothing," I assured her. "He is quite spoiled."

Julia briefly looked me over. "Perhaps his needs are greater than his wants," she said before she marched out of the parlor.

I had half the mind to follow her, but she returned a moment later with a tray containing tea and cinnamon rolls generously drizzled in icing, and the moment she served me such an indulgent dessert I forgot what we had been talking about.

"What are you going to do with Alex's gift?" Julia asked as she took her usual seat beside me and folded her hands in her lap.

She asked me such a question the very moment I had taken my first bite of dessert, thus I was rendered unable to speak momentarily, which I was certain Julia did on purpose.

"Have you given her a name?" Julia asked.

"Alex named her Bessie."

"Bessie the Basset. What a sweet name," Julia cooed. "I suppose once she's been given a name you are most definitely keeping her."

"Was there ever any doubt?"

Julia grinned back at me. "None at all."

I grunted. "None indeed. Madame Giry and Madame Lowry would have my head on a spike if I took the damned thing away from Alex."

Julia chuckled. "I thought I saw you in the garden with your puppy before you stopped in."

"It is not _mine_ and I am taking no responsibility for Alexandre's dog," I said defensively.

Aside from making sure she was given a proper meal, letting her out for the night and making certain she had a suitable bed on the floor in my son's room, I had no intention of caring for the underweight mutt.

"She is very tiny."

"An unwanted runt."

"Alex most certainly wanted her."

"And why do you suppose that is?" I grumbled, daring her to liken my son's affection for me to a pup destined to be drowned in a river.

Julia rarely engaged in arguments with me, and if she did indulge me in my regrettable mood, it was only briefly before she gathered tea cups and spoons and said she was far too exhausted to entertain a guest.

"Children don't care if it's the biggest or smallest in the litter," she sensibly replied. "Lissy spent all day talking about how fortunate Alex is to have a pet. I'm certain she will ask to visit first thing in the morning."

"Your daughter may bring the dog home with her."

Julia merely issued a sly smile. "Unfortunately I don't know the first thing about caring for a pet."

"And I do?"

"According to Alex, you are well-versed in all subjects."

"He flatters me," I said under my breath.

Meg had taught Alex the fine art of exuberant exaggeration. She would dole out the praise to him in her wonderfully loving, high-pitched voice and tell my son he was the most magnificent little boy in all of France, which meant that when he spoke to me, he would say I was the most magnificent composer in the entire house. Given that I was the only composer in the house, I suppose the odds were in my favor, but I appreciated the sentiment. He had truly believed I was worthy of his praise.

"I can picture you with that darling little creature in your arms," Julia said. She smiled and looked me over in a way that quickened my pulse. "It's really quite charming."

"Charming? I do beg your pardon."

"Yes, absolutely charming to think of you caring for something so helpless. You do have a tender side."

I snorted at her words. "Indeed, a helpless, flea-bitten sack of bones," I protested.

"Oh, come now, Erik, you don't really feel that way, do you?"

"She is not mine. I have no feelings toward her either way."

Julia could not have looked more disappointed in my answer. She played with a strand of her hair and exhaled past her lips, clearly annoyed with my stance.

With no words exchanged between us, I ate in uncomfortable silence and watched Julia from the corner of my eye.

She had been good to me for the last four years, better than I deserved. I studied her hands folded in her lap, the long, graceful fingers that often caressed the back of my hand or brushed my shoulder when she entered or exited the parlor. The same fingers that worked tirelessly during the day mending trousers for neighbors and sewed dresses for her daughter also tapped the armrest when I played music for her early in the evening and dug into my flesh later in the night when we were intimate.

I could still recall with great clarity the first time she placed her hand over mine, how such a small gesture was surprisingly welcomed and intimate. My stomach had tightened, my throat suddenly dry and tongue in knots as she smiled, clearly aware of the effect she had on me.

For all Julia provided, I knew it was short-lived. We passed the time for one another, filling in the space between Christine's return and Julia eventually coming to her senses and finding a more suitable man to court her. I would be quite pleased for Julia, I told myself as I continued to eat in silence. She deserved better than I could ever offer her. She certainly deserved better than the worthless pig she had previously married.

"I saw the most amusing story in the paper," Julia said quite suddenly.

"I read this morning that Christine was in Amsterdam," I blurted out. Once the words were spoken, I inwardly cringed but made no attempt to retract them. "She is singing there tonight, I do believe. What an absolute delight for the patrons of Amsterdam."

Julia blinked at me. She took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of her nose, and exhaled. "How lovely," she said, although judging by her tone she thought the exact opposite. "As I was saying, there was an amusing story about a friend of mine who was in India purchasing spices, and apparently the merchant heard him incorrectly and sold him five times the amount of curry that he is able to store. They took a photograph of him in front of these giant burlap sacks filled with spices and the look on his face-"

"Most amusing," I agreed.

Julia gave a heavy sigh. "Perhaps if you would read anything else in the paper other than the article about Madame de Chagny you would know what I was referring to," she said under her breath.

"Her name is Daae," I replied stiffly.

"The newspaper refers to her as Vicomtesse de Chagny unless we are speaking of two different people."

My blood truly boiled. Quite clearly we were speaking of the same woman. "Her name-"

Just as she had done four days earlier, Julia abruptly stood and yawned. "I am simply drained. I do not know what has come over me."

"Nor do I," I said through my teeth.

Julia briefly looked me over before she gathered up the teacups. She nearly took my unfinished cinnamon roll, but I grabbed the plate and held it to my chest as there were still several bites left and I had no desire for it to go to waste.

"I think I will retire for the night," Julia said. I considered asking if I should see her upstairs, but she quickly added, "You may show yourself out once you have finished eating."

"Why did you invite me in?" I asked.

"For an evening of pleasant conversation which I am afraid will not happen tonight."

I couldn't tell if Julia was being facetious or brutally honest, however, I finished the rest of the cinnamon roll in one bite and stood.

"I apologize if you do not find my attempts at conversation pleasant enough."

Julia merely shrugged. "Another time. Perhaps next time you could play something for me? I do love the overture of Jewel and Mauro."

"Good night then," I said, ignoring her request. I waited a moment to see if Julia would apologize for turning me away so swiftly before I stormed out of the parlor and down the hall to the kitchen. Again I waited for Julia to come to her senses, but her mind was made up and she made no attempt to convince me to stay.

Aggravated by the abrupt end of the night, I trudged home the same way I had come. Hands on my hips and jaw clenched, I paced the length of my kitchen and felt as though every nerve was aflame.

I should not have given a second thought to Julia's reaction as she did not understand my need for Christine to return to me. No one understood the depth of my loneliness and the overwhelming need for her to resume the role she had played in my life. Without Christine, my music, my existence, meant nothing.

My anger had been pent up for so long that it needed to be released. Frustration became unbearable, and I longed for the solitude of the Opera House where I could commit an entire opera to flame or sweep my arm across the table and listen to the satisfying crash of dishes onto the floor.

Of course, the mess was always mine to clean up at the end of the day, but I did not care. I needed the release, the satisfaction of destroying a plate and coffee cup or six month's worth of music.

I started to reach for a pitcher left out to dry by the sink when I heard the tap of nails against the floor. A moment later, the puppy scampered into the kitchen, saw me standing in the middle of the open space, and ran to me.

"Of course you've been left unattended." I sighed and looked from her to the pitcher. "Outside one last time."

She ran out the backdoor while I stood outside in the dark and noticed Julia had already extinguished her invitation for the night. Aggravated, I turned my attention back to Bessie, who was busy weaving in between plants in Meg's garden.

"Find a suitable spot," I grumbled.

The dog appeared a moment later, a tangle of spiderwebs, dirt, and foliage clinging to her body.

"You most certainly did not relieve yourself," I said.

She did not seem the least bit concerned by my observation and proceeded to paw at the door until it opened. Before I could utter a word of protest, she took off like a shot through the kitchen and down the hall.

"Wait a damned moment," I said as I stalked after her and attempted to gather twigs and small leaves as they fell off her. For reasons that were entirely her own, she bypassed Alex's room and ran toward the stairs where she barely managed to pull herself up the first two steps before I approached.

"No," I firmly said.

She looked over her shoulder at me and attempted the third step.

"You are not allowed in my room."

The stubborn little beast made it onto the fourth stair before I grabbed her. She wriggled and whined, showing no signs of being the least bit tired. It seemed the two of us were quite restless.

"You need to expend some of your boundless energy," I said quietly.

Being that she had been in the house for no more than twelve hours, we were grossly unprepared for walks as she had no collar and certainly no leash. I carried her through the house and into the cellar where I found a bit of twine and fashioned an old handkerchief into a collar. Ingenuity came into play when I used the lace to fit a cufflink through in order to keep the makeshift collar pinned in place. To prevent her from escaping should the handkerchief rip, I went so far as to design a harness around her body with the twine.

"To the end of the street and back," I said to her as she spun in a circle and attempted to eat the twine. "You are already far more trouble than you are worth and I will not be roaming the streets at all hours for your benefit."

I knew damned well the walk was not for the benefit of the dog, at least not completely. I needed to clear my thoughts before I retreated to my bedroom for the night and began a commissioned sonata I had put off for far too long. For years I had walked the streets alone, sorting my thoughts in silence as I roamed about late into the night and sometimes until dawn.

The moment we exited through the front door, Bessie sprinted down the street and found herself immediately at the end of the length of twine I allowed her. She glanced back to see if I followed, then put all of her weight-which was not much-into pulling like an ox.

Her determination amused me, and I walked briskly behind her so that she could continue with her steady pace. I appreciated her stubborn nature and the way in which the collar and harness did not deter her from sprinting down the street.

"You have important business, I see," I said as one street became a second and then a third.

She turned at the sound of my voice and ran toward me, planted her front feet on my shin, and launched herself off my leg and ahead once more. Tail wagging, she threw her head back and howled much louder than should have been possible for such a small animal.

Unexpectedly I chuckled to myself and wondered if Alexandre had chosen this particular pup for her personality. She was certainly as enthusiastic as my son and delighted in her own antics.

For all of her enthusiasm, however, she came to a sudden stop four streets away from home and laid down quite abruptly.

"Come, we must return home," I commanded.

She barely lifted her head to acknowledge me.

"Stand at once."

She instead rolled onto her side and stretched out, clearly having no idea that she could not sleep in the middle of a street.

"Do you wish to be left here?" I asked as I gave the twine leash a tug.

There naturally was no answer to my question other than her wagging her tail at the sound of my voice. It reminded me of when I would reprimand Alex for crumpling up my music and him responding with a sheepish grin.

I scooped the pup into my arms and immediately felt her lift her head to lick my chin. I wound the length of twine up and proceeded to carry the exhausted hound toward home.

"You are far too much trouble," I whispered. "Far more than you are worth and yet…you are fortunate Alex brought you home."

I thought of the night Madeline had found me in the last tent of the traveling fair, how I'd been filthy, starving, and afraid of being beaten yet again. I'd been far too much trouble to her over the years, far more of a nuisance than I would ever be worth, but still Madeline tolerated me. She did not love me, of that I was certain. No one truly did aside from perhaps Alex, who adored everyone he met and exuded pure joy. He had loved me and I had loved him, and as much as I still adored my only child, I was not certain if he still felt the same for me.

My pace slowed and I looked down at the pup in my arms with her head resting against my chest. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her breathing quick but even, and she groaned as she adjusted herself in my grasp.

She was so tiny and trusting, much as Alex had been long ago, perhaps even as I had been as an infant. I had no recollection of trusting anyone other than my uncle and Madeline, a mere two people out of thousands had smiled rather than berated and shunned me.

The pup gazed up at me as though she understood my unspoken sadness. Her nose wiggled, her tongue flicking out to lick my left cheek. I glanced around at the empty streets, then kissed the top of her head and caressed her soft fur, and the affection I bestowed upon her was well-received.

"You are not worthless," I whispered into her ear. "I did not intend to be cruel."

All of my life I had wanted someone to say those words to me, that I was not worthless, but it would not be so. I was crumbling, losing the very foundation of myself with every trembling breath. I would regain my footing when Christine returned. She was everything I needed, and as the date of her arrival drew nearer, I worried that my plan would not be set into motion as I desired.

Bessie yawned and went boneless in my grasp, and the way in which she found comfort with me eased my self-induced torment. Despite the discontentment I felt inside, this small creature found comfort in my arms. I could feel her steady heartbeat against the palm of my hand as I propped her against my chest. Rather than think of my own misery, I considered how fortunate she was to have gone from nameless and in danger of being drowned to rescued by my son and delivered safely into our home. One small act of kindness had changed her fate.

I smiled to myself and thought of what Julia had said of how she could picture me holding the dog. Charming, she had called it. In the back of my mind I could see Julia standing with her hand over her heart and a smile on her full lips as she spotted me carrying this helpless little creature home.

I looked down once more at Bessie, and to my surprise, she lifted her head and licked me full on the lips. Before I could turn my head, she managed a second kiss directly into my mouth.

"None of that, none of that," I chortled as she continued to lick my neck and chin. I placed her on the ground for the last half a street until we returned home and she dashed off onto the grass and squatted before she returned to my side and ran in a circle around me, which tangled us both in twine.

I managed to loosen the string and step over it before she bounded up the stairs and scratched at the door to be let in.

"You have no patience," I said. "You are far too similar to Alex."

Once I unlocked and opened the door, I struggled to remove the makeshift collar and harness from her wriggling frame. The moment she was free, she ran to the stairs and hopped up three of them before she turned and looked at me with her droopy eyes.

"Why do you want upstairs so badly, hmm?" I asked. "There is honestly nothing up there of interest."

Her back foot slipped off the stair, and I reached out to catch her before she tumbled down to the bottom.

"You may sleep upstairs tonight, but tomorrow you return to your own blanket," I said as I carried her up and placed her on the rug.

She watched intently as I closed and locked my bedroom door, removed my mask, and examined my reflection. The wound to my cheek was no better. In fact, it was more red and raw than it had been earlier in the day. I collected a handkerchief from my dresser and opened a small bottle of salve Madeline had delivered every few months from London. While the dog attempted to chew on the rug, I cleansed the wound I had neglected for weeks and felt the sting of the salve in the open wound.

I sucked in a breath through my teeth as the ointment made my flesh momentarily throb. Bessie whined and pawed at my leg in a show of canine concern.

"I've been foolish," I whispered. "A damned fool if there ever was one." I glanced down at large, soft eyes. "It will heal in a day or two," I promised.

With my mask off and hairpiece placed on a wig stand, I dressed for bed and returned to my desk. Somehow in between gathering my ink and pen and looking over my notes for the sonata, Bessie managed to find her way onto my lap. I had no recollection of picking her up, but quite clearly I had absently saved her from sleeping on the rug.

When the clock chimed two in the morning, I yawned and abandoned my work in favor of sleep. I placed the dog on the rug once more, turned down the lamp, and pulled back the covers.

It came as no surprise when Bessie attempted to jump up on the bed beside me and I was certain she was not surprised in the least when I placed her by my feet. She burrowed beneath the coverlet, stepped clumsily up the length of my body, and nestled into the crook of my arm where she sighed heavily and promptly fell asleep.

I remained as still as possible so that I would not disturb her, which seemed ridiculous since the dog should have been downstairs on a ragged blanket rather than curled up in my bed.

Still, I smiled to myself and watched her breathe. She felt like an over-sized baguette straight out of the oven tucked against my chest; a baguette that happened to be softly snored in her sleep while her legs twitched with her dreams of running the streets and chasing rabbits.

"Back downstairs tomorrow," I whispered in an attempt to convince myself I did not permanently have a dog sharing my bed.


	7. Peaches Beneath Moonlight

My dreams were filled with adventures between a boy and his loyal dog. Despite having no wooded areas and creeks near our home, I dreamed of hunting and fishing, of running through a forest with my dog at my heels as we chased rabbits and deer through fern-shaded game trails..

The sun was high overhead, glistening along the rush of water in a stream teeming with fish. Bessie knew all of her commands and was content at my side for an afternoon of fishing. On the other side of the stream sat my father with his feet in the water and lunch in a basket beside him. He was no longer rail thin and melancholy. When he looked across the water at me and Bessie, he smiled and said he loved me.

His words echoed through my thoughts as I woke with sunlight warming my face through the bedroom window.

"Good morning, Bessie," I said with a yawn as I woke and reached over the side of my bed. I popped one eye open when I didn't feel a cold, wet nose or warm tongue against my outstretched hand, and immediately discovered the blanket where she had been asleep vacant.

"Bessie, where are you?" I asked as I felt around under the bed. "Come here at once."

She did not waddle out from under the bed or my chest of drawers as I expected.

"Oh no," I said under my breath as I shot out of bed and pulled opened my bedroom door. I walked down the hall, through the kitchen and into the dining room where I searched under the table and sink. With no sign of my puppy, I ran toward the parlor and study, but there was no signs of Bessie.

"Aunt Meg! Aunt Meg!" I yelled frantically.

Aunt Meg ran from her bedroom and met me in the hall. "Alex, what is wrong?"

"My Bessie is missing!"

Aunt Meg did not appear nearly as alarmed as I felt. She shifted her weight and nodded. "Oh. She's not hiding under your bed?"

I ran back into my room and practically dived under my bed, which was empty.

"She's not here," I said as I threw back the covers on my bed. I knew it was highly unlikely such a small creature had climbed onto the bed, but I held onto what little hope I possessed that I would find her. "She isn't anywhere. She's disappeared!"

Aunt Meg stood in the doorway and pursed her lips.

"What happened to my puppy?" I asked.

"I don't know," Aunt Meg softly answered.

"Could she have gotten out of the house? Was the back door left open?" I asked as I climbed to my feet and hurried down the hall and into the kitchen once more.

Aunt Meg followed behind me and sighed when she reached the kitchen. "Alex, you know you should not have brought home a puppy without your father's permission," she said gently.

My throat tightened and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes as I walked barefoot into the garden and called Bessie. I turned in a full circle, but there was no puppy.

"Oh, Alex," Aunt Meg whispered.

"Did you let her loose?" I asked.

"Of course not," Aunt Meg answered. "Why would you think such a thing?"

"Did...did Father let her go?"

Aunt Meg frowned and put her arm around me, which was all the answer I needed. "I haven't seen your father today, but this is his home and you must follow his rules. You should have asked for permission."

"He did, didn't he? He gave her away!"

"Alex-"

I shrugged off her hand and balled my hands into fists. "Father said I could keep Bessie as long as I took care of her. I was going to take care of her today!" I yelled, my voice strained with emotion. "It isn't fair! He promised! He promised and he did not keep his word! I...I hate..."

Aunt Meg gasped in horror despite my words going unfinished. My throat was far too tight to continue speaking, my eyes too clouded with tears to stand before her much longer without breaking down.

"Alex," she admonished as she reached for me, but I pulled away and bolted back into the house where I slammed the door behind me, which left Aunt Meg in the garden alone. Through a cloud of tears I started to run back into my bedroom, fully prepared to dress myself and search the streets of Paris alone in order to find Bessie, but I paused, wiped the tears from my eyes, and stared at my father's closed bedroom door.

In that moment, I was ashamed to admit how I felt, but I hated him.

My father's room was quiet, which was typical during the early hours of the day. Grandmere constantly ordered Father to go to bed at a sensible hour as she feared him staying up all night was bad for his health while Father grumbled he was rarely sick and the hour in which he decided to retire for the night had no effect on his well-being.

I made it up two of the stairs before Uncle Charles called for me from the study.

"Ten minutes until lessons start, Alexandre," he cheerfully reminded me.

His jovial tone irritated me. I had no desire to be placated by my uncle, not when my puppy was nowhere to be found. With a groan, I tossed my head back and stomped up the rest of the stairs, fully prepared to unleash my wrath.

Once I stood on the landing, I hesitated. If my father had truly abandoned my gift, I would never forgive him, not for as long as I lived.

I stood in front of his door, took a deep breath, and prepared to knock when Grandmere loudly whispered my name.

"Alex! Do not disturb your father when he is sleeping," she scolded.

"But-"

"Come down here at once."

"Bessie is missing!" I blurted out.

Grandmere's expression darkened and she gently tapped her cane against the rug. "I'm sure she will turn up."

"Did Father get rid of her?" I asked.

"Your father took her out one last time and I put her in your room. That was the last I saw of her."

I wanted to believe Grandmere, but I knew my puppy could not have simply disappeared. Before I could ask another question, my father's bedroom door opened and I whipped around to face him.

Father appeared somewhat startled to see me standing in front of his bedroom door. He was still in his pajamas, which I expected as it was quite early in the day, with a wriggling puppy held to his chest.

"There she is!" I exclaimed as I reached out to take Bessie from Father.

Father looked me over, his expression unreadable. He made no attempt to hand Bessie to me. In fact, he slightly turned away so that I could not grab her from him.

"Why are you shouting?" he gruffly questioned.

"I couldn't find Bessie," I answered.

In silence Father looked from me to the puppy. "You thought I abandoned her?" he asked.

Despite knowing he had overheard my frantic words, I still shook my head. "I thought she escaped from the house," I lied.

His eyes met mine, and I saw the familiar presence of sadness in his gaze, but there was something more.

There had been a time when Father sent out a symphony. It had been a piece of music commissioned by a chancellor in Germany, and Father had worked tirelessly on the project. He mailed out the full score earlier than expected, which he expected would please the chancellor. Three weeks passed before the chancellor replied, and the house was buzzing with anticipation of music sold to a prominent political figure.

I had been sitting in the study playing with my toys when Father strode in, grabbed his letter opener from the desk, and read the contents.

He had been eager to receive news from Germany, I knew. Even Lisette and her mother were aware of the music being sent out as Father had told Madame Julia when he visited for sweets and Madame Julia shared in the excitement with me when I went to play at her home.

I was always more accustomed to Father rarely speaking of his music, but this time had been different. For three weeks I had overheard him speaking to Grandmere about how he looked forward to the chancellor's response and that the symphony was one of his most favorite pieces he'd ever composed. He was beaming with pride over his music and was confident the chancellor would eagerly purchase the commissioned work. The first of many, Father had said to Grandmere, the rise of his slowly progressing career.

"You have earned this," Grandmere assured him. "I've always told you that you were talented."

Within moments of opening the letter, however, his eagerness and excitement faltered. The contents of the letter drained him before my eyes. He stood motionless with the letter in his suddenly trembling hand, his light eyes filled with concern. His lips thinned, his chin nearly touched his chest, and for a long moment he merely stared at the page in his hand.

I had called to him at last in an attempt to draw him back from whatever devastation pulled at his heart. Green eyes pulled away from the letter and met mine at last, but the way in which he looked at me was not at all familiar. He blinked and offered a weak smile, but there was no hiding the sorrow he felt.

"What does it say, Father?" I asked.

"Nothing, Alex," he replied before he crumpled the letter and threw it into the trash. His empty hands balled into fists, and I thought for certain he would hit the wall or kick the trash can, but instead he cleared his throat, turned, and walked out of the study. A moment later his bedroom door opened and quietly shut, and for three days I did not see my father.

I did not need to see the letter to know the chancellor had not purchased my father's beloved symphony. The music he had written, the composition he said was one of his favorites, was tossed into the fireplace later in the week after supper. Grandmere shrieked in horror, and the sound of her despair gave me gooseflesh when I thought of it many months later. My father had poured himself into every note, and the rejection knifed through him in a way I could not comprehend. He could not bare to hold onto something that caused so much grief, something so dear to him that others did not appreciate.

That was the way my father looked at me, like a man who had been devastated by rejection and deeply wounded by my callus insinuation that he had abandoned Bessie on the street. He inhaled sharply and handed the pup to me.

"Take her outside at once and make certain she does not wander into my bedroom again, do you understand? She is your responsibility, not mine," he said before he closed the bedroom door in my face.

I felt as though I should have knocked on the bedroom door again, but Bessie wriggled in my grasp.

"Alex, do as your father instructed," Grandmere ordered from the bottom of the stairs.

I walked down the stairs without protest and took Bessie outside. From the back garden I heard Grandmere knock on Father's bedroom door with her cane.

"Erik?"

"I do not wish to be disturbed," I heard Father grumble. His voice carried through his open bedroom window.

While Bessie romped through the yard, I turned my head and quietly listened to their exchanged.

"Open the door," Grandmere sternly replied.

I waited with my breath held, but Father did not reply and Grandmere didn't ask a second time. I stood outside and wondered if my father had allowed my grandmere into his bedroom or if they had come to a silent impasse.

"Alex!" Lisette yelled from the other side of the stone fence. She planted her hands on the fence and pulled herself up to sit on the ledge. At any other time I would have marveled at her strength as she effortlessly perched on the stone ledge, but I had no desire to be bothered. "And Bessie! Oh, may I see your puppy? I'll give you a worm!"

Bessie ran toward the fence at the sound of Lisette's voice and jumped up to greet her.

"I don't want your worm," I grumbled.

"I wasn't going to give it to you anyway," Lisette said with a shrug before she hopped down and scooped Bessie into her arms. "Oh, you smell much better today, Bessie! Like a proper lady puppy."

There was no such thing as a lady puppy, I wanted to tell her, but instead I crossed my arms and turned away.

"Alex?" Lisette questioned. "Why are you pouting?"

I was absolutely not pouting. I crossed my arm tighter and refused to answer such an asinine question.

"Alex?"

"I do not want to speak to you, Lissy."

"Here is your puppy," Lisette said with a sigh. "I'm going to tell Mother you were far too preoccupied with pouting to play."

"I have lessons," I argued. "I cannot spend all day long playing games with a silly girl."

"I suppose that's true. I will have to find other silly girls to play with me," Lisette agreed before she skipped off, pulled herself over the stone fence, and returned to her own home.

She left me sulking in my aunt's garden, surrounded by a vast array of flowers, vegetables, and birds at the multiple feeders hung from the tree shading the corner nearest the back door.

I was reminded of how Father often sat outside on sweltering summer nights long after the table was cleared and he brought down his empty plate from the meal he ate in his room. He carried Aunt Meg's kitchen chair out the back door and into the garden with a book tucked under his arm and a lantern swaying in his free hand.

Before my bedtime I sometimes peered through the cracked open door and waited for him to catch sight of me from the corner of his eye. Without looking up from his book, he would motion for me to sit with him.

Nothing pleased me more than being called to my father's side, and every time he asked me to sit with him, I burst through the door. We ate peaches under the moonlight, which we plucked off the tree that grew in Madame Julia's yard. Father hoisted me high onto the stone wall and braced me as I picked the biggest, juiciest fruit from the branches hanging over the fence. With fireflies blinking around us, we would gorge ourselves on stone fruit, drink lemonade, and watch bats dart overhead. Crickets filled the darkness with music along with a breeze rustling the leaves and tickling wind chimes around the neighborhood.

Sometimes Aunt Meg would stand in the doorway and fan herself for a moment, but when she spotted a bat overhead or a moth flew toward her, she ran screaming back inside the house. Her reaction always made Father chuckle to himself, and when he looked at me and smiled, I felt as though we shared in secret mischief.

"Alex, the Phoenicians await your arrival," Uncle Charles reminded me in his usual jovial tone.

"He will be inside in a moment, Monsieur Lowry," Father replied.

The sound of my father's deep voice made me jump, and I whipped around to find him standing in the doorway with Bessie resting in his arms. He was still in his pajamas, but had donned his favorite burgundy robe, which was pulled tight around his thin frame. The sash around his waist made it painfully obvious how thin he had become in recent months.

"Alexandre," Father said.

I met his gaze briefly before I shifted my weight and bowed my head. "Father," I whispered, hoping he recalled with fondness the nights we had spent content in the garden last summer. It felt so distant, so terribly distant, and I feared I had added to the rift.


	8. Sunlight and Warmth

I woke with the dog quite literally tucked within my shirt. How she had managed to wriggle up against me in the night was a mystery, but not completely unwelcomed. There was something comforting about waking to Bessie sound asleep and stretched out against my chest and abdomen.

As an infant Alex had prefered skin-to-skin contact as often as possible. He would snake his hand up my sleeve or beneath my shirt collar and flatten his hand against my flesh. He didn't care if I was preoccupied with editing a musical score or reading the newspaper as long as he was with me.

I had not realized how greatly I missed the closeness we had once shared until I woke with the dog nestled up against me. For the first five years of my son's life, I slept many nights on the edge of the bed with Alex up against me, typically with his knee against my spine or his heel pressed to my ribs as he somehow managed to turn upside down during the night. I could not bear to roll onto my side or stretch out my aching arm for fear of waking my son.

Bessie, however, was already awake when I opened my eyes. Her tail thumped against my stomach as she stretched out and proceeded to furiously lick my unmasked face.

Her eagerness made me chuckle as I shielded my face with my hand to prevent her from drowning me in affection. Not even a full day within my home and she had broken all of my rules, starting with no dogs in the house and certainly not in bed.

"Enough, enough," I quietly scolded as she wriggled out from my shirt and pinned me down with her paws against my shoulder.

At last she settled down and found a comfortable spot with her nose against my neck. She turned onto her side and I obliged her with a gluttonous belly rub.

Downstairs, Alex yelled for Meg, who answered him immediately. Between the two of them the house was rarely silent.

"It is far too early for yelling," I mumbled.

Bessie growled and chewed on my shirt collar in agreement. Her antics were nothing short of charming-which I begrudgingly admitted to myself as she licked my cheek before proceeding to chew on my shirt.

"Five more minutes," I said with a sigh. "Do you think you could cease moving for five more minutes?"

As it turned out, she could not, which did not seem to matter as Alex was still engaging in a rather heated and frantic discussion with Meg. Most of their words were muffled by Bessie, who was breathing quite hard in my face.

"Lay down," I commanded.

To my surprise, Bessie made herself comfortable and stretched out over my chest with her nose against my chin and her soft, brown eyes gazing into mine.

"Father said I could keep Bessie as long as I took care of her!" Alex shouted from the garden. "I was going to take care of her today! It isn't fair! He promised! He promised and he did not keep his word."

"Alex, keep your voice down," Meg warned.

"I...I hate…"

His words stole the breath from my lungs. I sat up in bed, and the dog slid into my lap and landed on her back where she pawed at the air. My heart hammered as I waited for Alex to finish his sentence, but Meg gasped and admonished my son for his insolence. It didn't much matter as I knew what he would say: he hated me.

From the time Alex had been left at my doorstep, I had always known he would one day loathe me. I was acutely aware of my shortcomings, of which there were far too many to name, and how I would fail him every step of the way despite my best intentions. Many nights after putting my son to bed, I returned to my room, locked the door, and removed my mask. There in the darkness, I peered at my reflection in the mirror and knew why he would eventually turn from me.

I had always known Alexandre would shun me for the same reason as his mother. In time he would abhor my appearance, and despite meticulously locking the door and checking it twice before I removed my mask and hairpiece, I assumed one day I would make a mistake and Alex would see me as incomplete.

He favored Christine in every aspect from his round face to his curls of hair, which reminded me of how his mother had looked me dead in the eye, her delicate features twisted with malice, and said words I could not quite fathom.

It was after we had been intimate a second and final time, after I had convinced myself that I could be a gentle and loving companion that she stalked toward me, rigid and spiteful, and said through her teeth, "I do not love you. I could never love something like you, so wretched and vile. I hate you. I hate you more than I could ever hate anything else in the world."

As unexpected and hurtful as Christine's words had been, they were not nearly as devastating as hearing Alex's unfinished statement. He had no idea how deeply he could wound me with his hatred. No flogging, clubbing, or other form of physical punishment hurt as much as my own son voicing how he hated me.

What would Christine think if she heard our child's words? Perhaps she would wish to take him with her and leave me behind again once our son told her how worthless of a man I had been over the years.

No, I told myself. No, Alex would not say such things and Christine would see what a bright and animated boy I had raised in her absence and would realize how much time I had spent with our son, doting on his every need and listening to his every word in preparation of us being a family at last. She would know he was cared for in every way imaginable and would know Alex's outburst was not the truth. I had loved him since the very first moment I set eyes on him. Deep inside, Alex knew this.

Alex stomped up the stairs to my bedroom and I immediately stood, placed the dog on the floor, and donned my hairpiece and mask. I looked myself over momentarily and took a step back from my reflection.

"Ten minutes until lessons start, Alexandre," Charles Lowry reminded my son.

Alex did not reply. I looked myself over in the mirror and knew my son could have very well hated me. The person staring back at me was a vile, beastly abomination unworthy of such a perfect child.

"Alex!" Madeline hissed. "Do not disturb your father when he is sleeping."

Alex had my determination and naturally protested, not so much to see me as to find the dog he had brought into my home without permission. I heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs and assumed my son had started back down at Madeline's insistence. I picked up the dog, unlocked the door, and discovered Alex standing before me.

He whipped around, his eyes wide as he stared at me, then noticed Bessie. Immediately he grinned and started to reach out, but I turned and Alex paused.

"Why are you shouting?"

His bottom lip quivered as he continued to eye the dog. "I couldn't find Bessie," he said.

I stared back at Alexandre, willing him to look me in the eye as I knew he was not telling me the truth. The only trait of mine I wished for my son to carry was a love and appreciation of music, but unfortunately Alex displayed my temper and ability to bend the truth.

"Alex," I said sharply. His gaze momentarily flickered to mine before settling on the pup. "You thought I abandoned her."

"I thought she escaped the house," he said meekly.

Judging by the way he stood with his head down and eyes averting mine, he was aware I had overheard his conversation with both Meg and Madeline and yet he refused to tell me the truth.

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Alex looked at me again, this time with an expression of remorse, but it was not enough. I had seen far too much of myself in him and could not help but feel a deep sense of disappointment. I wanted him to be like Christine for his own sake as his mother was sunlight and I was a creature of darkness. The longer Alex was without his nurturing mother, the more his light faded.

I handed Alex his beloved dog, instructed him to take her outside, and quite literally closed him off from me by shutting the bedroom door. I waited a moment for Alex to knock, but he obediently returned downstairs.

Immediately I pulled off my mask and tossed it onto the bed, then proceeded to pace the length of my room with my hands on my hips. Christine would have known what to do and what to say to calm Alex and ease my racing, frustrated mind. She would have assured both father and son that mistakes were made, but that our relationship was not beyond repair. I needed her back in my life and so did Alex.

"Erik?"

Madeline's voice stopped me in front of my mirror. I glanced at my own startled, miserable reflection.

"I do not wish to be disturbed," I growled.

That should have been enough, but Madeline was rarely dissuaded by my foul mood. In fact, she seemed quite drawn to my surly, disagreeable nature.

"Open the door," she snapped.

I purposely left my mask on the bed, stormed toward the door, and pulled it open with my right hand covering the scars. Madeline eyed me with indifference, which only added to my already sour mood. She lingered in the doorway a moment and looked me over before I turned away and grabbed my mask off the bed.

"He didn't mean it," she whispered.

"Of course he did," I replied with my back to Madeline as I adjusted my mask.

"Children say things they don't mean."

"Did your daughter ever say such things to you?" I challenged.

"Many times," Madeline answered.

At last I turned to face Madame, surprised by her answer. While the women within my household argued on occasion, I'd rarely heard them issue cutting remarks to each other.

Madeline assumed my silence was an invitation and walked into my bedroom where she seated herself on the edge of my bed. With a wave of her hand, she beckoned me to sit as well.

"When she was auditioning alongside the rest of the dancers, she would become angry with me for demanding she work harder. I admit there were times when I pushed her more than the other girls because I saw her potential, but she did not see it as the head of the ballet asking her to do her very best. She saw it as her overbearing mother making her work harder than anyone else. There were times when she threw her slippers into the orchestra pit out of anger, then stormed out of the theater. Of course, she always made certain to tell me how she felt before she slammed the door shut."

"When was this?" I asked.

I had no recollection of such behavior and quite frankly I could not picture a young Meg Giry storming anywhere at all. She was a meek, mousy girl who clung to her mother's skirts.

"When you went missing."

I blinked at her, taken aback by her words as this was a period of time we never discussed. Irritated, I started to motion toward the open door, but Madeline released a heavy sigh of frustration.

"You need to speak with your son instead of hiding up here."

"I am not hiding, Madame, I am working," I snapped.

"There is not a single sheet of paper on your desk," she pointed out. "You know as well as I that you are never intentionally awake at this hour.

In this regard Madeline was correct, which irritated me as I had no excuse to dismiss her.

"He needs more than I can provide," I said as I took a seat at my desk and turned toward the window. Immediately I caught sight of Julia standing outside at the gate speaking with Meg and wondered if she had overheard Alex. Undoubtedly she would question me about what my son had said, and I dreaded her reaction and what she would think of me. Already Julia's opinion of my behavior seemed terribly low, and as much as it should not have affected me, I wanted to be seen in a favorable light by her.

"All children need more than parents can provide. We simply do our best," Madeline said.

"He thinks I am cruel," I said under my breath.

"No, Alex thought you dismissed his ability to care for a dog before he had the opportunity to show you how much he wants her. She was a gift to you, Erik," Madeline reminded me. "More than anything he wants your approval."

I sat with my back to Madeline and considered her words. When I had been Alex's age, I had sought approval from my father as well, but I had never received a single moment of true affection.

"Do you know I never once told my father I hated him? Not once," I said over my shoulder. "I must have been Alex's age when I hit my forehead so hard against the leg of a table that it dazed me."

I had been purposely tripped by my father for his amusement, but I hit the sturdy table leg much harder than he had apparently thought was possible.

"I had a gash deep into my hairline, and as I sat there unable to stop the bleeding, he handed me his handkerchief. He said nothing to me and he barely looked me in the eye, but that single moment I thought to myself...he cares for me. After all this time, he cares enough to give me his handkerchief to stop the bleeding. Never mind that he purposely tripped me." I shook my head and offered a humorless chuckle. "How utterly foolish on my part, how remarkably inept I had been to think of his actions as kindness."

Madeline quietly stood and placed her hand on my shoulder. My knee-jerk reaction was to swat her hand away, but I remained still and allowed her a moment to remain close to me. For as long as we had known each other, she had always placed her hand either on my shoulder or over the back of my hand when I was agitated. One small gesture had oftentimes stilled the quake of anger before it became unstoppable rage.

"No more of this self deprecation. Come downstairs at once and speak to your son." Madeline tapped me hard on the shoulder, which gave me little choice but to follow her.

"What would I say to him?" I muttered more to myself than to Madeline. It galled me to ask Madame for advice, but I made no attempt to retract my words.

She looked at me from over her shoulder and offered a smile once we reached the bottom of the stairs. "Tell him how much you valued his gift to you."

Madeline followed me into the kitchen and nodded once I reached the back door. Meg had returned inside and sat at the small table peeling potatoes. She stopped working and watched me from the corner of her eye much like an animal of prey waiting for the predator to pass by.

I stood quietly with the door cracked open and saw Julia's daughter with Bessie hugged to her chest. The dog's back legs dangled as she patiently looked up at her captor and made no attempt to wriggle free.

Despite my frequent relations with Julia Sueratti, I had not officially met her daughter Lisette and had no desire to make her acquaintance at such a time. Instead I waited quietly and listened to their exchange, cringing all the way as Alex said he had no time to play with a silly girl.

A moment later Lisette placed the dog in the grass and skipped off through the garden where she hopped effortlessly over the stone fence, leaving Alex to sulk alone. I waited a moment longer for Julia to usher her daughter inside before I gave the door a nudge. Bessie trotted over, tail wagging high in the air, and jumped up on my leg.  
"Alex, the Phoenicians await your arrival," Charles yelled from the study.

"He will be inside in a moment, Monsieur Lowry," I said over my shoulder before I picked up the dog and cradled her in my arms.

Alex nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of my voice. He whipped around and offered a smile the moment he saw me, but his expression quickly faded.

"Alexandre."

My son looked away and took a step back. "Father," he said under his breath.

I wondered if my own father had ever looked at me and realized the deep sense of shame that constantly plagued me. I recognized the emotion within my son and knew he did not wish to confront me. Perhaps he expected I would lecture him and voice my deep disappointment or berate him for his words.

"I believe I neglected to return Bessie to your bedroom last night, and for that I apologize," I stated.

Behind me, Madeline muttered something inaudible under her breath. I caught the frustration in her tone and could not blame her as that was not how I addressed my son.

Alex stared wide-eyed at my stiff attempt at conversation. He offered a weak nod and visibly swallowed. "Yes, Father," he said quietly.

Had I not stood directly in front of the door, Alex most likely would have darted around me and bolted to the study, but instead he remained with his head bowed and hands clenched at his sides.

"I took Bessie for a walk last night," I continued. "I fashioned her a harness and leash out of twine."

At last Alex seemed interested in the conversation. "Out of twine? Bessie, is this true?"

Unsure of what answer my son expected, I moved the dog's head up and down with my hand.

"Do not make her answer! She will tell me herself," Alex said. He marched toward me and placed his ear against Bessie's snout. When the dog licked the shell of his ear, he nodded readily. "You did go for a walk!"

"The dog's word is apparently better than my own," I said dryly.

"What else did you do, Bessie?"

Again Alex turned his head and allowed the dog to enthusiastically lick his ear. "Is that so?" Alex looked up at me and furrowed his brow. "I will ask, Bessie. One moment."

Alex had a most vivid imagination, one that constantly impressed me. Whether his toy soldiers were going to battle or his stuffed lion and bear were scaling the mountains, he was a master at entertaining himself. It came as no surprise when the dog could suddenly speak in a language only he could understand. The carefree way in which he was allowed to express himself always lightened my mood and gave me a moment to see the world through his eyes, a world I had very much been denied at his age.

"Bessie doesn't remember what you did once you returned home."

"She was exhausted," I answered. "She slept in my arms."

Alex appeared quite delighted. "No wonder you could not remember, Bessie!" he exclaimed. "You were asleep!"

"And then in similar fashion to you when you were quite small, once she was inside she had regained her stamina and ran about the foyer. Quite a remarkable feat."

I wondered if my son recalled how I frequently carried him down the hall to his bedroom at the end of the night. Often while I spent my evening reading downstairs, he fell asleep with his arms around me and his head resting on my chest, unaware of how the rest of the world viewed the man who had sired him.

Sometimes when I called his name, his eyes would pop open and immediately shut. A smile would creep across his lips as he deviously pretended to be fast asleep. I knew he was perfectly capable of walking the length of the hall, but no matter how exhausted I felt, I carefully set my book down, gathered him in my arms, and placed him in bed.

"How did Bessie get upstairs with you?" Alex asked.

"I carried her up."

Alex tugged on my sleeve despite having my full attention "Like you once carried me!"

I nodded, appreciating his animated response. "Precisely."

Alex grinned back at me, an expression I had not seen often enough in recent months. "Who was heavier? Me or Bessie?" Before I could reply, Alex pointed at himself quite proudly. "I was!"

"You were indeed."

Alex took a quick step forward, and for a moment I thought he would fling his arms around me, but instead he pulled back and looked away. His decision to remain a a distance caught me off-guard, and my chest tightened as his excitement faded. Foolishly I had expected our fractured relationship to be repaired with one conversation, but broken things are not always healed.

"Uncle Charles needs me," Alex mumbled without meeting my eye.

I considered telling him he could stay with me for as long as he wished, but I didn't want to interrupt his studies nor put him into the habit of arguing with his tutor as Charles undoubtedly provided a level of stability I failed to give my own son.

"May Bessie attend studies this morning?" Alex asked hopefully.

"If Monsieur Lowry agrees."

In truth I had music to finish and did not need the distraction of a dog running about my bedroom, however, I could not help but feel a great sense of disappointment that I had lost my four-legged companion to the Phoenicians.

"And if Bessie is interested in a history lesson, of course," I said as I walked back into the kitchen and placed the dog on the floor.

Alex marched in and slammed the door behind him. "Come on, girl! You must meet Uncle Charles! He knows everything."

The moment Alex took off down the hall, Bessie followed, but not without first tripping over her ears. She picked herself up, shook herself off, and scampered out of the kitchen without giving me a second glance.

My music would not write itself, I reasoned. I had compositions in need of revisions so that I could approve publication as well as several other pieces in need of editing. I had enough work to last me well into the evening. Once everyone retired for the night, I would place my newspaper clippings around my desk and work on the aria I had started composing for Christine.

Again her cruel words crept into my thoughts and stabbed at me like thorns.

"I do not love you. I could never love something like you, so wretched and vile. I hate you. I hate you more than I could ever hate anything else in the world."

She would love me once she heard my music and saw our son. She would regret leaving me and beg Alex to forgive her, which of course he would do once he saw how happy she could make the two of us.

No, she had not meant those cruel words spoken in the heat of the moment. Deep inside she knew we were meant for one another, destined to raise our son and create the most beautiful music the world would ever know. She would return to me.

I grabbed a plate, cut a piece of bread from the loaf Meg had bought the previous morning, and slathered it in butter and jam before I intended to return to my bedroom. I turned, and at the last possible second saw the dog at my feet and practically hopped over her to avoid crushing the little beast.

Large, dark eyes stared up at me as her tail wagged back and forth, and I looked from her to my breakfast.

"This is not suitable for a pup," I reasoned with her.

Bessie didn't care if it was suitable or not. Her whines gave way to a pathetic howl of despair.

"There is a bowl of food made for her," Madeline called from somewhere else in the house. "It's by the coffee."

Immediately I found the bowl filled with what appeared to be pork scraps, an egg, and green beans left over from the previous night's supper.

"They feed you better than me," I said as I placed the bowl in front of the dog and watched her devour her breakfast while I took a bite of my bread. Her tail wagged furiously as she consumed her meal, which amused me. This tiny creature who had wandered back to my side could not have been more grateful for her food.

Once we both finished our meals, I let her outside a second time and leaned against the doorway with a cup of tea as she wandered around the garden with her nose to the dirt.

I swore I felt someone watching me and looked first to Julia's back door, which was empty, and then over my shoulder where Alex stood at a distance.

"I was trying to keep an eye on Bessie, but Uncle Charles made me take notes," Alex said apologetically the moment I turned my head. "I didn't mean to let her out of the room. Father, please-"

"I will keep her with me until you have finished your studies for the morning, then you may retrieve her," I offered.

"You will allow Bessie to stay with you?" Alex questioned.

"She is my gift and I am fully capable of minding a pup for a handful of hours."

At last my son smiled and seemed to relax. "Thank you, Father."

Bessie bounded back into the kitchen and ran to Alexandre.

"No, girl. Father is going to take care of you for a little while." Alex knelt down and scrunched up the dog's ears. "He is going to play the same song for you two dozen times. You will like that, won't you?"

Alex never ceased to amaze me with his ability to dole out the most backhanded of compliments. I smiled inwardly as he gave the dog one final pat on the head, picked her up, and handed her to me.

My hands settled momentarily over his and I was surprised by the warmth of his touch. Ever since he had been a toddler his hands were always warm against my flesh. Fingertips made of sunlight, Meg would say to him when they sang and played in the middle of the afternoon after his lunch and nap.

Everything about him from his thick curls of hair and quick smile to the sound of his voice was warmth and sunlight. He had sustained me with his bubbling laughter and enthusiasm for books, learning, and blurting out obscure facts while I composed. The way in which he spoke and expressed his ideas gave me a glimpse into the childhood I had never experienced.

No matter how engrossed in my music I became, I had always been able to reach out and find Alex there at my side. He sat patiently through me playing the same melody over and over, all the while asking how many eyes spiders had or if I thought it would be possible to win in a race against a dragonfly. Many times I looked over my shoulder, brow furrowed, and found him sprawled out across my bed with his feet dangling over the edge as he asked questions I had never considered. Music fulfilled a desire within me to create, but Alex was my joy.

"Thank you, Father," Alex quickly said before he turned and ran out of the kitchen and down the hall. "Bessie, be good!"

And just like that my sunlight and warmth was out of arm's reach.


	9. The Woman in the Newspaper

Chapter 9

"Alex? Alex, are you listening?"

I blinked at Uncle Charles' question and sat up straighter in my uncomfortable chair. Why Father had purchased a high-back, stiff chair with scratchy fabric was beyond me, but it was the one closest to Uncle Charles and therefore the one assigned to me for my studies.

"No," I answered. Instinctively I touched my trouser pocket to check for the newspaper page I had folded up and tucked inside.

Uncle Charles sighed. "At least you are honest, I suppose." He nodded at me and tapped the open book I was supposed to be reading during morning studies. "What was the last thing you remember hearing me say?"

"Nothing," I said.

Uncle Charles frowned and pulled off his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath, which made me realize I had perhaps been too honest. "Alex, close the door, please."

I stood and did as he requested, fully expecting Uncle Charles would tell me we would work through afternoon recess, but instead he reached over and shut my book.

"I thought the dog was going to be your greatest distraction today," he said quietly. "However, I can see you are still a world away. Why don't you tell me what is on your mind?"

"I'm not sure what is on my mind," I said.

That was mostly true as there was far too much on my mind for me to describe to Uncle Charles. Despite my father agreeing to care for Bessie, he was still quite aloof. For one brief moment he had placed his hand over mine and I thought for certain he would look me in the eye and smile, but instead he quickly pulled away. Suddenly I realized our fractured relationship would not easily heal.

While Father remained in the kitchen tending to Bessie, I had raced back to the study and saw the paper in the foyer. For months Father had come down from his bedroom, retrieved the paper and the mail, and returned upstairs until late in the afternoon or early evening. Our mid-mornings spent sharing breakfast had come to an abrupt stop. My afternoon break from lessons where I sat on his bed and listened to him play had gone silent. I was accustomed to my father reading passages of articles he found amusing or absurd aloud to me, but now I was no longer needed. He stayed within his bedroom with the door locked, and no one saw or heard from him for the majority of the day.

The woman in the paper was to blame. Father had dozens of articles and photographs cut from the periodicals neatly contained in folders he kept in a locked drawer. I had seen the photographs weeks earlier when Father did not hear me walk into his room. Once he noticed me staring at the collection, he quickly placed them into the leather binding and tossed it into his desk drawer. I asked who she was, but Father ignored my question and asked why I was sneaking around.

"Take your time," Uncle Charles said gently.

Lost in daydreams, I merely nodded in response.

I could not recall a single instance in which Uncle Charles lost his patience with me. He was remarkably even-tempered and lacked the desire to quarrel with anyone. Even when he had guests over once a month for card games and his companions argued their points late in the evening when politics became the main focus, Uncle Charles settled everyone down with his firm yet pleasant tone.

"I don't think you would understand," I said at last.

"There is the possibility that I will not," Uncle Charles agreed. "But nevertheless as your teacher and favorite uncle, you may ask me."

"You are my only uncle," I pointed out.

Uncle Charles winked at me and offered a warm smile.

"Father is unhappy," I said under my breath.

My stomach tightened as I spoke. For as long as I could recall, Father was not quick to laugh like Aunt Meg or as animated in conversation as Uncle Charles. My father of course smiled when I walked into his bedroom, but there had always been melancholy in his eyes. I had noticed the sadness becoming more and more prominent as the weeks passed and there was nothing I could do. I blamed the woman in the newspaper. Father collected her photographs, but her image did not bring him joy.

"Your father is a very sensible man," Uncle Charles offered politely.

"He is unhappy with me." Again I touched my trouser pocket to make sure the folded newspaper was still there. Deep inside, I knew Father would be quite upset when he discovered the front page of the paper missing, but there was no turning back now.

"You mean to say with bringing home the puppy?"

"Not specifically." I shifted in my seat in an attempt to find a comfortable spot that did not exist and took a deep breath, forcing myself to continue. "Father has been unhappy for many months now. I do not think he still loves me."

To my surprise, Uncle Charles had no comforting words of wisdom. He sat with his hands folded on the desk and brow furrowed as he silently mulled over my words. The longer he sat in silence, the more I dreaded what he would say.

"May I tell you something?" Uncle Charles whispered. He looked from me to the door and back again.  
I readily nodded.

"You were far too young to recall this, but your father interviewed me to see if I would be suitable," Uncle Charles said at last. He sat forward as he spoke, and I felt as though he told me a long-held secret.

"A suitable uncle?" I whispered back.

He grinned at my question. "Not simply your uncle, but your tutor. He would accept only the best for you. For as long as I have lived under his roof, your father has demanded that you receive the best education."

I sat hunched over in my seat and frowned. Being forced to study astronomy hardly seemed like proof of love. In fact, it seemed like torture.

Uncle Charles cleared his throat, sat up rigid in his wheelchair, and hardened his expression. "Monsieur Lowry," he said, purposely deepening his voice to imitate my father. His eyes narrowed and he looked me over. "What are your qualifications in tutoring my beloved son?"

When I made no reply, Uncle Charles slapped his hand on the desk, but not nearly as hard as Father would have to garner attention.

"Out with it! I haven't all day!" Uncle Charles grumbled. He winked at me and offered a crooked smile of encouragement.

"My name is Charles Lowry and I am very smart," I droned with an exaggerated British accent.

Uncle Charles made no attempt to curb his laughter. "I am almost certain those were my exact words."

At last I smiled at his attempts to lighten my dismal mood. "Me too," I said with a chuckle as I folded my arms on the desktop and rested my chin.

"Alex, I assure you, your father does love you and there is nothing that will make him ever stop." He paused and looked to the door, then back at me. "I will tell you a secret if you promise what I say stays between you and me," Uncle Charles whispered.

Wide-eyed, I slowly nodded at the opportunity for a secret between men.

"Before I first met your father, my darling Meg told me that if I wanted to stay in his good graces, I would make certain to address you because you were the center of your father's world."

I scoffed at his story. This was not exactly the type of secret I expected to hear.

Uncle Charles sighed at my impatience. "You were two or three years of age when influenza hit the city," he said. The mirth in his voice vanished and the smile on his face turned to a grim expression. "My sweet Meg was the first one to fall ill, and you and I were next. Do you remember this?"

In silence I shook my head. I had been far too young to recall being sick, but Grandmere often brought up how the illness swept through the city if anyone so much as sneezed.

"Meg insisted that she was well enough to care for both of us, but she was weak and tired and you were listless. Your grandmere insisted that she take you with her to give Meg time to rest, but you refused to leave your aunt's side."

"Where was Father?" I asked.

"He was not yet ill, so grandmere insisted he keep his distance from the rest of us, but he did not listen."

"He has the head of a bull," I said.

Uncle Charles grinned. "We should not repeat your grandmere's words," he said quietly. "One night, when Meg was asleep in the rocking chair with you on her lap, your father came in and took you from her. He spent all night making certain there was a cool rag on your forehead and that my sweet Meg had water to drink. He brought a water basin into the nursery and kept you comfortable while you slept. Eventually he ordered Meg back to bed and took over caring for you.

"And then a week later when everyone was feeling better, your father became extremely ill, worse than any of us from what your grandmere said."

I didn't remember being ill, but I remembered my father unable to leave his bed. I remembered both sides of his face ghostly white and skin fevered as he lay flat on his back with his eyes closed and breaths labored. I hadn't understood at the time that all of us could have perished from influenza, but I knew Father was not himself.

"It was the middle of the night and I heard you climb up the stairs to see him, so I woke Meg. She got up and found your father sitting on the stairs with you on his lap."

"He felt like fire," I said. This I remembered because his hands were always cold against mine and on that night his skin felt as though he had held both his palms over the fireplace.

"He had lost the strength to carry you down to your own bed, but he managed to sit with you. Your father used what little strength he had remaining to hold onto you. No matter what, he was there for you, Alex. He has always put you first."

I considered my uncle's words for a long moment. I vividly remembered climbing up the stairs and into bed beside my father. He had stripped off his shirt and lay on his side with his glassy eyes slit open. I remembered thinking he looked very much like a snake in the moonlight, pale and still.

Fearing I would be ill again, he picked me up and carried me down the stairs, but stopped and sat hard in the middle of the staircase in the darkness. I rested my head against his chest and felt his heartbeat and harsh, unsteady breaths while he ran his fingers through my hair and said he loved me. He had felt like a rock in the midday sun, but his body trembled and he could barely speak above a whisper.

I hadn't realized Father was far too weak to carry me down the stairs. He could have ordered me to return to my own room, but he seldom reprimanded me.

"He loves you," Uncle Charles said.

"I think he has forgotten," I whispered. If he did still love me, once he saw the newspaper missing a page, he would feel quite differently.

"That is not possible, Alex, I assure you."

"What if he loves someone else more than me?"

"Are you referring to the dog?" Uncle Charles asked with a chuckle.

"No, I mean the woman in the newspaper."

Uncle Charles furrowed his brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"The vicomtess de Chagny," I answered.

I knew by the look in Uncle Charles' eyes that he recognized the name, but he cleared his voice and looked away from me. He had a similar reaction when I asked where babies came from-a question I realized was still unanswered.

"I have heard the name a time or two but I know nothing of her," he said dismissively.

Uncle Charles was polite, good-natured, and a terrible liar. For as often as he told me I was a very smart young man, in that moment he treated me like an ignorant child completely oblivious to his tone and body language. It angered me that he would not tell me the truth.

"She is a soprano," I said.

His jaw twitched.

"She is very famous. It says so in the newspaper."

"I am no expert on music."

"Father crossed out her last name and wrote Daae. What does that mean?"

"I do not know, Alex. We should return to your studies," Uncle Charles firmly suggested.

"She did not sing for two years publicly, but she is traveling through Europe," I said, ignoring his words. "She is singing at the Exposition. Everyone in Paris is going."

"Alex, I do not have any answers-"

"Why not?" I blurted out. "Or do you know the answer and refuse to tell me?"

"Alex, that is quite enough," Uncle Charles warned. "Not another word."

"You are a liar and I hate you!" I shouted as I slammed both fists onto the table.

Uncle Charles worked his jaw in silence and shook his head. He looked equally frustrated and sorrowful, yet he did not lash out verbally or physically. His silence made my outburst worse

All too late I realized my folly. As much as I longed to retract my words, there was nothing I could do to repair the damage I had caused. My chest ached and my throat felt painfully tight as I grappled with my emotions. How quickly I had gone from sorrow to anger.

"Alex, I understand you are hurting," Uncle Charles whispered. "I apologize for being unable to answer your questions."

Before I could offer an apology of my own, the door creaked open and I felt my skin prickle as I expected to hear my father say I exhibited poor behavior and owed Monsieur Lowry an apology. I turned away and held my breath, bracing myself for a scolding.

"Alex, it is time for lunch," Grandmere called out pleasantly enough. She briskly walked into the study and placed her hands on my shoulders. The cane in her right hand rested briefly against my arm as she bent and kissed my cheek. "Wash your hands and face and come into the dining room at once."

I glanced at the clock and saw it was a few minutes past ten in the morning, which was far too early for lunch but I did not protest. I stood and saw my father from the corner of my eye as he briefly lingered in the doorway. He turned and walked away before I could see his expression, though I assumed he was not pleased with my questions.

"Grandmere-"

She thumped her cane against the wooden floor. "Wash up, Alexandre," she commanded.

I looked to my uncle, who nodded his approval. "We will resume in a half hour," he said. His tone was cheerful, but the sorrow in his gaze remained.

I exited the study like a man condemned with my head hanging and hands clenched. At the end of the hall Father stood with Bessie tucked up against his chest and the newspaper in his free hand. I met his gaze briefly and once again touched my trouser pocket. In silence I wondered if he would be more upset with me if I surrendered the front page at once or if he would be more forgiving for my honesty.

"Go on," Grandmere said as she motioned me into the kitchen.

Aunt Meg silently awaited my arrival. She stood with a towel in her fists and blue eyes wide and worried for my fate. Almost immediately after I entered the kitchen, Grandmere closed the pocket door and sighed heavily.

"Mother, please," Aunt Meg said. Her desperate tone made me shiver. "Perhaps the puppy ate it."

Grandmere made a face. "Highly unlikely," she replied, keeping her voice low.

"Aunt Meg, what did Bessie eat?" I asked. "And is she going to be sick?"

Aunt Meg looked from me to Grandmere and pursed her lips. "Part of the newspaper is missing," she said.

My heart stuttered.

"There are plenty of other copies to be found," Aunt Meg added. "Alex could walk down to the market with me."

Grandmere said nothing in return. She looked me over with her chin held high and one hand on top of the other holding her cane. It was a look I had seen many times before when I ate the last slice of pie or broke one of her ballerina figurines.

"Alexandre, did you take-"

"Here!" I said before Grandmere finished speaking. I pulled the folded newspaper page from my trouser pocket, ripping it significantly as I did so, which made Aunt Meg gasp.

Grandmere plucked the folded paper from my hand and looked it over with her brow furrowed and lips in a deep frown. Walking past me, she placed the paper on the table Aunt Meg used for sorting and chopping vegetables and attempted to smooth out the page, but there was no use. She sighed as if her displeasure needed further confirmation.

"Mother," Aunt Meg said softly.

Grandmere shook her head. "He will not be pleased."

"The woman in the paper, she is the vicomtess de Chagny," I said. "Quite possibly the most celebrated soprano of the age," I added, reciting the words I had read earlier.

Aunt Meg and Grandmere exchanged looks of surprise, yet neither of them offered an answer, which I found increasingly frustrating.

"That is correct," Grandmere said, seemingly surprised by my words.

"Father has a dozen photographs of her from the newspaper in his room," I continued.

Aunt Meg's lips parted and eyes grew wide and Grandmere whispered something inaudible under her breath as she clutched her cane.

"How do you know this?" Grandmere asked.

"I've seen it," I answered.

"You should not be sneaking about," Grandmere admonished.

"I'm not," I protested. "Father had them out on his desk."

"Then you should not interrupt your father."

"Why does Father have her photographs? Has she performed in his operas?"

Grandmere closed her eyes and shook her head. "You are far too inquisitive," she said. "Meg, go down to the corner and see if one of the boys has another copy of the newspaper."

Aunt Meg reached out to me. "Come on, then," she said with a nod.

Grandmere started to protest, but Aunt Meg whisked me out the back door and around the side of the house.

"Walk quickly," she said under her breath.

I did as she said, mostly because I had no other choice.

"Aunt Meg, who is the vicomtess?" I asked.

She glanced at me, seemingly annoyed, but didn't dismiss me at once. "We were in the ballet together a long time ago," she said.

"You know her?" I asked excitedly. At last a bit of information.

"I do," she answered carefully.

"Was she a good dancer? As good as you?"

Aunt Meg grinned. "Your attempt at flattery will not work on me, Alexandre." She slowed her pace, whirled around, and chuckled to herself. "But no, she was not as good as me. Her gift was her voice."

"Does Father know her as well?" I asked.

Aunt Meg's expression sobered. "He did a long time ago," she answered.

"Has she performed in any of Father's operas?"

"No," Aunt Meg said firmly. "I'm afraid she has not."

I furrowed my brow. "Do you think Father would like her to sing something he has written?"

"I would imagine he would."

"Perhaps he will ask her."

Aunt Meg swallowed hard and looked straight ahead. "Perhaps."

"You could ask her for him," I suggested. "Since you know her."

"That is a very good idea," Aunt Meg said absently.

"Did Father ever meet her?" I asked. "Did she live in the big house with you and Grandmere?"

"Alex, your questions are giving me a headache. Can we talk about something else?"

"Would you take me to the Exposition to see her sing?" I asked.

Aunt Meg came to a sudden stop and stared at me. "No," she said firmly. "No, I will not."

"Why?"

"Because I said so and I will not have you ask me again, do you understand?"

I looked away and nodded.

Several minutes passed and we walked in silence down the street toward two boys hawking newspapers on the corner. Aunt Meg bought two copies of the paper before we turned and headed toward home.

"Are you upset with me?" I asked when I could no longer stand the silence.

"No," Aunt Meg said. "Not with you."

"Are you upset with Father?"

Aunt Meg didn't readily reply.

Father and Aunt Meg were polar opposites within the house, which meant they rarely interacted. Aunt Meg hummed to herself and swayed down the hall at all hours of the day whereas Father kept to himself in his bedroom or in the study.

Sometimes, when Aunt Meg sang to herself in the kitchen while cleaning dishes, Father would tap his foot or silently conduct the orchestra within his head-and there were nights when Father played the violin in his bedroom and I caught Aunt Meg twirling to the music. They were different and yet distantly connected in a way neither of them ever saw.

"Meg? Alex?"

We both turned at the sound of Madame Julia's voice as she crossed the street and greeted us with a warm smile. As was customary, she put her arm around me and kissed my forehead, and in response I closed my eyes and hugged her back.

"Oh, you are chilly, Alex," Madame Julia commented. "Here, take my scarf."

"We ran out of the house for only a moment," Meg explained. "I suppose I should have bundled him up."

"Out for the paper?" Madame Julia asked as she nodded toward the periodical in Aunt Meg's right hand. She wrapped the scarf around my neck twice until it covered me from my shoulders to my ears. The fabric was warm from the heat of her body and smelled of sandalwood. There was truly no better combination in the world.

"Yes, it seems our copy was delivered without the front page." Aunt Meg unfolded the paper, then quickly folded it back up.

Madame Julia briefly looked at the paper and frowned once she saw the photograph gracing the front page. "I see. How strange."

"We should return home," Aunt Meg said to me. "Give Madame Seuratti her scarf back."

"Oh, no, he should keep it," Madame Julia suggested. She raked her fingers through my hair and adjusted the scarf around my neck. "You look very handsome in green, Alexandre."

"Thank you, Madame Julia."

"Soon enough you will be as tall as your father." She kissed me on the forehead and sighed to herself. From the moment I walked into her home, she greeted me with freshly baked scones and a wide smile, and if I were as rambunctious as Lisette in the house, she shook her finger and told me to behave like a proper gentleman.

"You are more than welcome to come by and see Lissy when you finish your studies this afternoon," Madame Julia offered. "I made apple pie this morning."

I started to nod, but caught sight of the newspaper from the corner of my eye in Aunt Meg's hand and remembered I was still in a great deal of trouble.

"I will ask Father," I said.

"We should return home," Aunt Meg said. "You need to put the puppy outside."

"Yes, Aunt Meg."

Madame Julia looked me over one last time with a hint of sadness in her gaze. She straightened the scarf for me again and ran her fingers through my hair before giving a nod of approval.

"I will return your scarf this afternoon," I vowed.

"In exchange for pie," she teased.

Aunt Meg put her hand on my shoulder and nudged me down the street toward home. Without thinking, I looked back one last time at Madame Julia and saw her crossing the street once more.

Lisette was truly fortunate to have a mother, especially one who baked apple pies and always smelled like sandalwood. While I enjoyed playing with Lisette, I also relished the attention Madame Julia doled out whenever I visited. She did not simply listen to my reiteration of Greek mythology, but she asked me questions and laughed when I told her the jokes Uncle Charles interjected during my studies.

With my father, grandmere, aunt and uncle occupying our home, I had not given much thought as to why I did not have a mother. In a way, I had never needed one as I had my grandmere and aunt providing adequate, matronly attention.

I reached up, dug my fingers into the knitted scarf, and paused before we reached the front steps of our home.

"Alex?" Aunt Meg said as she unlocked the door. "What are you doing? Come inside at once."

"Aunt Meg?" I questioned. "Why don't I have a mother?"


	10. Love and Forgiveness

Chapter 10

Bessie settled herself in the crook of my arm and promptly fell asleep on her back. The tip of her pink tongue jutted out from her mouth and she pawed at the air, which amused me. As much as I wanted to grumble and protest an unwanted pet, I was smitten with the tiny creature-and I dare say she was quite comfortable with me as well.

With the pup settled in for her nap, I reached for the post and the newspaper I had brought upstairs now that Alex was in his studies for the morning, Meg was tending to her jungle of indoor plants, and Madeline was browsing a catalog for items we did not need.

I opened the newspaper and furrowed my brow once I realized the front page was missing. My jaw clenched and nostrils flared, and had it not been for Bessie asleep in my arms, I most certainly would have stormed down the stairs and asked Madeline what she had done with my paper.

Instead I foolishly turned the paper over as if somehow this would rectify the situation, which it did not. I muttered a curse under my breath and sighed heavily, causing Bessie to open her eyes and squirm in my grasp.

"The audacity," I said through my teeth. "The absolute insolence."

Bessie perked up at the sound of my voice and attempted to bite off the corner of the paper held above her head.

"There shall be hell to pay," I said to her as I folded the paper once more and slapped it onto my desk, causing an irritating flutter of paperwork to rustle.

Bessie rolled onto her belly and I gently slid her down from my arms and onto the rug where she gave a full body shake and wagged her tail when I stood. Delighted by the start of another adventure, she trotted to the closed bedroom door and waited for me to escort her downstairs.

She did not know the absolute apathy that had coursed through my veins since my youth. She did not understand that I had never been one to harness my emotions or consider the consequences of my actions. She did not know of my violent, bloody past.

Seeing this ribby, runt of a mongrel paw at my bedroom door gave me pause. I did not want her to see the very worst part of me, more damaged than the flesh beneath my mask.

This tiny creature trusted me. She nestled into my grasp with ease and curled up against me without hesitation. When I did not open the bedroom door, she bounded toward me and ran in a circle.

I knelt before the dog, and she immediately put her front paws on my knee and jumped until I scooped her up. She licked the exposed side of my face until I chuckled to myself and held her further from my body.

"You are quite free with your affection," I said quietly. My anger subsided briefly.

I tucked her under my arm, grabbed the newspaper, and exited my bedroom to find Madeline at the bottom of the stairs. She offered a close-lipped smile when she saw me.

"Where in the hell is the front page of my newspaper?" I snapped.

Madeline looked quite taken aback my tone and question. She looked from me to the paper in my hand and shook her head. "I didn't bring the newspaper inside this morning."

"Then who did?"

"I would assume Meg did."

"Why did she retain the front page?"

Madeline took a step toward me. "I highly doubt she would do such a thing."

"Then who-"

Alex yelled something inaudible from the study and Madeline immediately turned her head before she looked at me and frowned.

"You are a liar and I hate you!" Alex shouted.

My skin prickled at my son's outburst directed presumably at Charles. Before I could march into the room and demand answers, Meg flew out of the kitchen like a startled pigeon, stopping only when she spotted me. Madeline held her hand out to her daughter and glared at me.

"Did you retrieve the newspaper this morning?" Madeline calmly asked Meg.

Meg silently nodded. She looked from her mother to me and glanced at the newspaper in my hand.

"Did you take the front page?" Madeline asked.

Meg shook her head and Madeline sighed. "Make lunch for Alexandre."

For a brief moment Meg hesitated, but there was no denying her mother's request. She looked curiously at me one last time before she disappeared back into the kitchen without a word spoken.

"He does not need lunch," I protested. Bessie wriggled to be placed on the ground and I obliged, watching as she bounded after Meg, who promised the dog a bowl of water and a visit into the back garden to relieve herself.

Madeline slowly turned toward me once we were alone. She looked me over slowly before her gaze settled on my mine. The look in her eyes was hardened and cold, an expression I had seen many times before in recent years.

"You have shown time and again, day after day, for months on end, that you have no idea what Alex needs," Madeline said. Her tone lacked anger, but the look in her eye was venomous.

"I know precisely what my son needs," I snapped.

Madeline stepped toward me, her body rigid. The way in which she held her cane and moved forward had given many a ballet dancer pause. One thump of her cane or snap of her fingers and an entire troupe of girls went absolutely silent. If she cleared her voice or raised her chin, the entire stage of actors paused and awaited her command. Truly I was no different than the rest of them. I stood and awaited her wrath.

"Your misguided desires and your son's needs are two different things," she said.

"Madame-"

"What will it take for you to finally open your eyes and see what you are doing?"

"I know precisely what I am doing," I snarled.

"Then that is quite unfortunate, Erik. You do not deserve-"

Madeline stopped herself short of finishing her statement. She looked away from me briefly and shook her head.

"Say it," I dared her. I tensed considerably, silently willing her to say I did not deserve my own son.

Madeline had the audacity to walk past me and into the study where she firmly but pleasantly instructed Alex to wash for lunch. I glanced at the clock in the hall and saw that it was minutes after ten in the morning, nearly three hours before Charles normally provided my son's first break.

Alex sat with his back to the door. When Madeline bent to kiss him, he reached for his trouser pocket and patted his upper thigh. I carefully watched him for a moment before my anger threatened to get the best of me.

He had taken the newspaper. I was certain of it, and if I confronted him in that moment, I was certain voices would be raised and harsh words spoken. I considered storming into the room, but Bessie raced down the hall and to my side again and I scooped her up, returning to my room well before Alex left his seat. Despite the anger flooding my emotions, I knew if I did not remove myself from the situation, I would prove Madeline correct: I did not deserve Alex.

I placed Bessie on the floor, locked the door, and pulled off my mask, my pulse drumming in my ears as frustration took hold. Back and forth I paced the length of my room until I paused at the window overlooking the front of the house and saw Julia rounding the corner. She had a thick scarf wrapped around her head that made her face impossible to see, but I still recognized everything about her. She was familiar to me with the way her hips gently swayed as she walked and how she tugged at her skirts every few steps, something she did out of habit when she walked around her house. She glanced up at my bedroom window and my heart stuttered as I took a careful step back.

I was certain Julia had not seen me, but I could not decide if I was grateful or disappointed. I looked at my mask carelessly tossed on my desk and frowned as I wondered what she would have thought if she had seen me peering through the window with my face uncovered.

"Monsieur!" Julia shouted.

The sound of her voice startled me. I turned toward the window and saw her wave to a man across the street who smiled and trotted toward her with his arms outstretched. They exchanged a greeting I found far too friendly and my anger quickly turned to jealousy.

I pictured myself jogging across the street in broad daylight to take her hands in mine. I imagined her hazel eyes brightening and the way her lips parted as she spoke my name and leaned in for a kiss to the cheek, but quickly dismissed the idea.

I would greet Christine at the Exposition in several short weeks. She would see me from afar, our eyes would meet, and she would know how much I loved her, how I had never stopped loving her all these years. Perhaps she would see the despair in my gaze and the hint of hope and renewal her voice gave me. All I wanted was a second chance, a moment to present her son to her and ask to be part of her life again. I would fall at her feet if need be. I would cut off my own hand to prove my loyalty to her. There was no sacrifice I would not make on behalf of my angel.

Julia's laughter rang out and I turned my attention back to the street below. Another woman had joined the conversation and stood arm in arm with the gentleman Julia had called over.

A deep sense of relief overcame me as I watched them from afar. I imagined what it would be like to walk Julia to the park on a Saturday afternoon with my son and her daughter chasing one another. Alex would spend his money on toy soldiers and candies while Lisette, if she was anything like her mother, would wisely keep her coins in her pocket. Julia would loop her arm with mine and comment on how fragrant the flowers were in full bloom and I would inhale sharply and smell her intoxicating perfume.

The thought surprised me as our relations were restricted to her home in the evenings. We did not meet for supper by candlelight or attend plays and operas. We sat in her parlor with a plate of sweets and conversations that typically lasted late into the night. Often we retreated to her bedroom for more primal desires, but there was always pleasant conversation and the sweet melody of her laughter that made the hours pass with ease.

We were nothing, I told myself. We would never be anything at all but bedmates a handful of times a week as we were far too different by light of day. Julia sang simple, off-key melodies while she washed the dishes while I created grand symphonies and operas. She walked to the market in late morning while I left for my walks late in the evenings, far from curious eyes. In five years neither of us had brought up the possibility of something more than carnal pleasure. We both knew damned well our lives were set to different melodies.

And yet still...I could picture her doting on my son. She knew his favorite color and books, how much he detested astronomy but loved anything that he could read about Egypt and mythology. In the afternoon Alex talked about playing with Julia's daughter, and late at night over dessert, Julia fondly recalled whatever amusing story Alex told her during the day.

I did not have feelings for her, I assured myself. Indeed I could not have feelings for her. She was a neighbor and nothing more. Julia Seuratti was a good woman, but she was not my son's mother, and no matter how well she treated Alex, she would not be anything more to him than a woman who lived in the home behind ours and made him cookies.

Despite all of the reasons I should have returned to my desk, I watched Julia speak to the woman and man and silently willed her to notice me as I stood in the window without my mask. If she met my eye, if she smiled rather than recoiled, if she waved and acknowledged me, then I would step forward. I would smile and wave back to her. I would wait for her invitation to see her that evening and ask if she had ever wondered what was beneath the mask. If she asked for a closer look, I would show her. My heart raced at the very idea of voluntarily revealing what made me most ashamed.

I knew every detail of her likes and dislikes. She loved late season peaches, hated the mention of politics, and claimed her favorite color was yellow. Given that she had no yellow dresses, curtains, or anything else of that color, I had once pointed out that I was fairly confident her favorite color was actually blue. She had blue gowns, matching gloves, and the coverlet on the bed were all blue, as were most of the flowers on the dining room table in the summer. Julia had not argued my point, but instead shrugged and said I was most observant.

Julia did not look at my window. She departed down the street toward the market without a second glance and I shivered at my unfulfilled desires. It was foolish to think I would ever remove my mask in her presence. Far too much time had passed and I could not bear the thought of her recoiling or screaming at the sight of me. Not now. Not after five years of sharing not only her bed but her parlor as well. She knew what I allowed and not a detail more.

We had a decent relationship, and despite fully intending to end our affair in coming weeks, I wanted her to think of me with fondness when our paths no longer crossed. It was for the best that she never saw my face uncovered.

Without thinking I unlocked the bottom desk drawer and pulled out the folder containing every article and image of Christine I had collected. For as long as I would live, I was certain I would hear the echo in my thoughts of when she gasped and pulled away from my wretched face. The absolute fear in her eyes had startled me as no one had seen my cursed face for so many years that I had forgotten what it was like to hear a woman scream out in terror.

One terrible moment had erased years of comfortable conversations and singing lessons. In a single heartbeat, I fell from her graces. One unforgivable folly had unraveled me in the most devastating fashion.

Far too often her apathy for my appearance invaded my thoughts when I wanted to think of her in the days when I was her angel. I struggled to recall her smile when I looked at her through the mirror, the excitement in her expression when I praised her during our lessons.

I did not know Christine's favorite color or the type of perfume she fancied. I had no idea what her coverlet looked like or if she had flowers on the dining room table. The ache within me became almost unbearable as I struggled to call if she had ever told me her likes and dislikes.

We had music, I told myself, a connection she shared with no one else. At last the photographs in the newspaper jarred my memory to a more pleasant time between tutor and student.

"Our son needs you," I whispered in an attempt to reassure myself that my actions were on behalf of Alex. "I need you," I said.

It was easier to say the last three words. I needed her. I would be a better father with Christine at my side. I would be a better man with my son and his mother in my life. Without her, I feared I would continue to be nothing but a wayward shadow. Most of all, I was deathly afraid that I did not truly deserve Alex. Christine would assure me that I was worthy of not only our son's love, but hers as well. Our lessons could continue. I would train her voice and she would give me the guidance I needed to be a better, more worthy man.

I heard Meg and Alex's voices through the open window and swiftly gathered the newspaper clippings and returned them to the drawer. I stood, nearly tripping over the dog, who had curled up in the center of the room, and saw Alex bundled up in Julia's scarf. He had come to a stop several steps from the front door and dug his fingers into the woolen scarf lovingly secured around his neck and face. I was certain Julia had bundled him up when she spotted him on the street with nothing more than his overcoat.

"Alex? What are you doing?" Meg impatiently questioned. "Come inside at once."

Alex ran his hand along the knitted scarf. "Aunt Meg? Why don't I have a mother?"

I remained stock still while Meg grabbed my son by the wrist and pulled him inside the house. She slammed the front door much harder than necessary and for a moment I was unable to follow their conversation as I walked to my bedroom door and strained to listen to their exchange.

"Return to your studies," Meg ordered.

"Does Uncle Charles know?" Alex asked.

"Do not ask him such questions," Meg said.

"Does Father know who my mother is?" Alex blurted out. "Grandmere? Surely someone knows her."

Part of me regretted hiding the truth from Alex all of these years, but quite honestly with the way Christine had dropped him off I did not know what to say of her, and despite his curiosity in all matters, Alex never asked.

On several occasions I had considered telling him that his mother was a gifted singer and that she cared greatly for him, but unfortunately was not able to be in his life. This, however, was untrue. Christine had abandoned him, plain and simple, without so much as a word spoken between us. She had left him soiled and starving in Madeline's arms before she disappeared, and my thoughts on the matter were still quite bitter. He was an absolutely flawless infant and inquisitive toddler. It pained me to think of all she had missed in his life-and how Alex never had the pleasure of hearing his mother's sweet voice.

However, Alex was content within my home and well provided for in every way imaginable, which is why I suspected he never thought to question why he did not have a mother.

Christine had avoided performing in Paris, and as far as I was aware, she stayed out of France altogether, but that was about to change. Everything was about to change. We would have her back at last.

"Hang up Madame Julia's scarf on the hook and take off your wet boots!" Meg yelled as she stomped up the stairs.

I took a hurried step back despite the door being locked and Bessie released a blood-curdling yelp as though I had cut off her tail and not simply stepped on her for a fraction of a second. She continued to wail as though I had nearly murdered her and the high-pitched sound puckered my arms with goose flesh.

I whirled around and grumbled a curse under my breath while Bessie continued to cry. She dashed beneath my bed where she picked up her left front paw, then decided it was the right one that was in pain.

"Monsieur?" Meg called. "Are you unwell?"

"It's the dog," I snapped impatiently at her asinine inquiry and looked from the door to Bessie, who peered out from beneath the bed with her dark, pathetic eyes. With a sigh I tapped on my knee and called her name, but she was not quite ready to forgive me.

"What happened to Bessie?" Alex yelled. "Is she injured?"

"I don't know," Meg replied.

"She is not injured," I assured the two of them. I grabbed my mask and knelt, reaching beneath the bed in an attempt to retrieve the dog, however, Bessie whined in response but did not come out. In fact, she slinked further back and pressed her small frame to the wall, making it impossible for me to pull her out.

"Why did she make that sound?" Alex asked. He roughly jostled the door knob.

I exhaled as I stood, checked my reflection hastily in the mirror, and unlocked the door, barely able to step aside as Alex burst into the room with Meg at his heels.

"Bessie! What happened?" Alex shouted as he crawled halfway under my bed and pulled the pup out by the scruff of her neck. He still had Julia's scarf wrapped loosely around his neck and tossed one tasseled end over his shoulder to prevent the dog from biting the yarn.

Meg placed the newspaper on my desk and folded her arms across her chest as she watched Alex coddle the dog. She made every attempt to pretend she did not stare, but I felt her gaze pinned on me.

"Alex, I think she is fine. You should return to your studies at once," Meg suggested.

"She doesn't look fine," Alex said as he looked the dog over. "Were you injured under the bed? Did you fall? Did something frighten you?"

"I stepped on her tail," I admitted at last.

Alex gasped dramatically. Behind me, Meg inhaled sharply. The two of them were far too similar with their theatrical reactions, particularly when it came to an overly dramatic dog.

"Oh! I am sure it hurts to have someone step on your tail!" Alex exclaimed.

From the corner of my eye I saw Meg shake her head in dismay and assumed she thought I had intended to injure the unwanted mongrel. Every time she met my eye, I still saw a flicker of trepidation in her gaze. We had shared the same home-both the Opera House and the one we now occupied-for the majority of her life and Meg Lowry would always see me as a monster. Admittedly it stung to think she considered me the type of remorseless beast who would harm a rail thin dog.

"It was an accident," I added. I glanced at Meg, who pursed her lips and looked away. She nodded ever so slightly to acknowledge my words. I didn't know if she believed me, and I hated that her opinion had any clout.

Alex frowned and gingerly touched the tip of Bessie's tail. "Oh, Bessie, Father did not intend to step on you. He would not hurt you, girl. Not on purpose." He looked at me and offered a smile before he turned his attention back to the dog.

At least my flesh and blood believed I had not cruelly stomped on the pup's tail.

"Father is very kind, Bessie," Alex added.

My son's words took me by surprise. All of my life I had been called a monster, a demon, the bastard son of the devil, but rarely kind. More treatrous monikers suited me, but not when it came to Alex.

Alexandre brought out a side of me I had never known existed. He tested my patience often by sliding down the banister and somersaulting over chairs, but he amended his maddening ways with the way in which he offered a toothy grin. As an infant the utter helplessness of such a small child nestled within my grasp seemed to stop time. I rocked him as the sun rose and marveled at the chirp of birds in the trees and the fiery start to the day on a cold winter morning. I held him belly-down in my arms while he reached to the window and the rivulets of rain on the glass and cooed _da da da_ over and over again. It did not seem possible that I had played a part in creating such a loving and rambunctious boy, and yet he was mine.

I regarded Alex for a long moment while he comforted the pup. He leaned forward and scrunched up his face when Bessie bumped her nose against his and licked his cheeks. She wriggled in his grasp, making him chuckle as she pawed at his chest. A boy and his dog, the perfect companions, both teeming with enthusiasm and mischief.

Soon enough we would have what we needed. Alex would know how I had fought for his mother to return to his life, how I would willingly sacrifice myself for the sake of Christine and Alex. There had been distance between Alex and myself, for which I was sorry, but that would be forgotten. Christine would return. I would repair the damage I had done. No longer would Alex stand at a distance; he would have a place between his mother and father where he was forever loved and protected. There would be no more sorrow, no more locked doors, and no secrets. We would be a family at last, strongly connected, with music filling our days and nights. I would know Christine's favorite color and purchase a dozen new dresses to please her and Alex would bring her flowers. All would be forgiven, all would be right.

"Did you apologize?" Alex asked suddenly.

"Alex," Meg warned. "Your studies."

I raised my right hand and silenced Meg Lowry while Alex continued to hug the dog to his chest. His gaze flickered to mine for a brief moment and he forced a smile. His wary expression was one I did not recognize on his round face.

My parents had never cared to notice the loneliness and pain I harbored. Countless times I had offered a wan smile to my father in hopes he would reconsider beating me mercilessly, but my attempts were always wasted. As he advanced on me, my smile faded and I braced myself for the inevitable in silence.

Not once had I shaken or struck my son, but the melancholy in his dark eyes was that of a boy who hurt deeply.

"I am truly sorry if I hurt you," I said, looking Alex in the eye. I shuddered at my own words. It was not my intention to hurt my son; I was doing what was best for him. For both of us. For all three of us, really. I would be an angel once more, a fierce protector of my son and his mother. He simply needed to be patient for a few more weeks before I could convince Christine that she was very much needed in our lives.

"Here," Alex said as he extended his arms and offered Bessie to me. "She forgives you."

I cleared my throat and loosened the knot that had threatened to bind my voice. _Forgiveness._ I had forgotten what it felt like to stand in good graces.

"A full recovery," I said as Bessie's tail thumped wildly against me.

"All she needed was a bit of love," Alex explained as he climbed to his feet and brushed off his trousers.

He turned before I could reply and dashed out of the room, leaving Meg behind. She folded her arms and looked from me to the newspaper she had left on my desk. There was dread in Meg Lowry's blue eyes, but she didn't dare say a word aloud.

The image of Christine smiled at the ceiling. Love and forgiveness, my son had said. I wanted both from my angel. Redeem me once more, I would tell my beloved Christine, revive the dying parts inside of me with your voice. Give me what no one else possibly could provide.

The bedroom door quietly closed as Meg made her exit. The sound snapped me out of my daydreams and I plucked the paper from my desk and sat on the end of my bed. I reached down to smooth the coverlet and felt the woven pattern of Julia's scarf beneath my fingers. Alex must have discarded it haphazardly before he handed Bessie off. I wrapped the woolen fabric around my arm and could not resist inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent.

"Forgive me," I whispered.

I stared at the image of Christine, but the words were meant for Julia.


	11. The Existence of Elves

Looks like two more chapters and this story will be complete! It's all written. A bit of editing and it'll be posted.

CH 11

Father spent the majority of his day alone, thus I came to the conclusion that he was quite lonely.

He never said he felt this way, but I could tell. There were times when Father left his bedroom door open and I walked quietly up the stairs with a surprise for him: a cookie or piece of candy Aunt Meg playfully forbid me to touch, which made me certain that she wanted me to take it. I would see my father through the open door as he sat at his desk and stared out the window, his expression blank and eyes distant.

Sometimes in the middle of the night he would wake suddenly from a nightmare. There were weeks when it happened nightly and other times when a month would pass and he would sleep soundly. He would walk down to the study and read until daylight, then return to his bed for a few hours.

My favorite moments were when Father slept late and allowed me to accompany him. He would scoot over and I would rest my head on his shoulder and listen to him breathe or grunt as I told him about how many worms I found in the back garden.

"So many worms," he would murmur.

"I'm very gentle," I would tell him as I gave details of how I rescued worms from drowning in puddles and moved them to safer parts of the yard.

When he was almost asleep, I would put my hand over his heart and feel the rise and fall of his chest. He would smile moments before he drifted off, telling me that he was simply closing his eyes but would still listen to me speak.

But I knew when he was asleep. I would look up at him and see the White Face lift from the flesh underneath. His skin was red and uneven beneath the White Face, a landscape of scar tissue that piqued my curiosity.

"Is it a bandage?" I asked Grandmere one evening while Father was playing his music upstairs. Father had said he had an opera due to be sent out and needed absolute silence in the rest of the house to finish his work. Rather than be allowed to sit with him, Grandmere had ushered me into the kitchen with her, which was boring.

"Pardon me?" she asked in her distracted way when she wasn't really listening to me.

We were sitting in the kitchen with the back door and windows open on a hot late summer night. Aunt Meg and Uncle Charles were sitting in the front of the house watching lightning over the city.

"The White Face. Is it a bandage for the wounds?"

My words immediately garnered her attention. "How do you know about the wounds?" she asked as she shut the pocket door and stood against it.

"I've seen them."

"When?"

"When Father is sleeping."

Grandmere stared at me, frowning. "You should not pry, Alexandre."

"I wasn't prying. I can see the wounds when he moves his head a certain way. The bandage doesn't stay on completely."

"Well, you should not be staring. It's rude."

"Why haven't the wounds healed?" I persisted.

For as long as I could remember, Father had doned the White Face at all times. He had more than one White Face, some of which were not white at all. He didn't hide them from me-and I knew that he removed the covering in private.

Many times I had seen discarded linen squares in the rubbish bin, the cloths stained with blood and smelling of whatever medicinal ointment he used to tend to the wounds.

"I don't know why they haven't healed, Alex."

"Will Father always have to keep them bandaged?"

"It's not a bandage."

"It's a mask," I said so that she would not think me a simple-minded child. But it kept the wounds concealed, so in a way it is a bandage.

Grandmere frowned at me. "Yes, and you should not speak of it."

"But why?"

"Because your father doesn't like to talk about it."

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't."

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

Grandmere sighed. "Sometimes."

"He was bleeding this morning," I said. I had seen him cutting linen squares. He tossed the scissors and the cloth into his desk drawer the moment I walked into his room, but his swift movement gave him away. "He must be hurting."

"Yes, I know," she replied quietly.

"Does the White Face make the wounds hurt less?" I asked.

I had sincerely hoped that the purpose of the White Face was to make Father feel less pain. He could arrange his voice to sound jovial and he could look at me and smile, but his eyes gave him away. He was always happy to see me, but there was underlying melancholy. It was worse in the morning when his sleep was disrupted by nightmares.

"I don't know, Alex," Grandmere said. "I honestly don't know."

"Have you seen Father without the White Face?" I asked.

Grandmere turned her head to the side and listened for a moment as Father stopped playing momentarily. At last she sighed as the music started again.

"Yes, but do not ask him to remove it."

"Why?"

"Because there are certain questions you shouldn't ask other people. And because I said so."

I was about to ask another question when Meg opened the pocket door and startled at the sight of us.

"Why is the door closed?" Meg asked.

"I was asking about Father's White Face," I replied.

Meg stared wide-eyed at me. "Oh." She shut the door behind her.

"Have you seen Father without the White Face?" I asked Meg.

Meg looked as though she very much regretted walking into the kitchen and would have rather spent her time boiling in another room than face my questions.

"I don't remember," Meg said. Then she turned, opened the door, and walked out again. "Coming, Charles darling."

I knew Aunt Meg was not telling me the truth, but seeing as how she had walked out, I had to settle for a lie. For the life of me I could not understand why the White Face was such a secret in the house. Quite clearly Father had wounds that were not healing and he chose to keep them covered at all times. When I skinned my knee or otherwise injured myself, Father, Aunt Meg, and Grandmere insisted that they take a look and tend to my minor ailments. Father, however, seemed negligent with his own care.

I had intended to ask Father if I could hold the linen squares or the bottle of ointment while he cleansed his face. I had considered asking him why he did not let Grandmere take a look or why the wounds didn't heal. But then Father started to distance himself and I didn't want to waste my time on a question that I knew would lead to me being asked to leave the room.

"Alexandre," Father called.

The sound of his voice made me jump as I sat in the dining room picking apart my bread, meat, and cheese into elf-sized sandwiches. I had managed to turn my Alex-sized meal into a feast for six elves, which I proudly showed my father.

"I apologize if I startled you. You must have been daydreaming."

"Night dreaming. It is no longer daytime."

"You are correct."

I smiled back at him. "Grandmere says you could sneak up on a cat hunting a mouse." I had no idea what it meant, but it seemed true.

"What is that?" Father asked as he nodded to my plate.

"Elf sandwiches!"  
"Elves do not exist."

"But-"

"Eat, do not play with…" he paused in the middle of his sentence and sighed as he met my eye. "You are imaginative," he said instead.

"Do elves really not exist?" I asked, tilting my head to the side.

Father's lips parted.

"Where do all of the tiny gifts I find come from? Aunt Meg said the elves leave them. Just last week an elf left me a marble for my collection."

"I suppose I should say I have never seen them. Their existence is possible. Unlikely, but...yes, I would think that perhaps they do exist."

I furrowed my brow. "They do?"

"Yes," he said, sounding more than a little flustered.

"Where is Bessie?" I asked, deciding to change the subject.

"Chewing on a bone, which is better than chewing on me," Father answered. He lifted his right hand, which had several scratches along his knuckles all the way to his wrist.

"Did Bessie bite you?"

"Playfully. You will look after her while I am out of the house?"

I nodded readily, glancing at the clock. It was a bit early for Father's evening walk, but I hoped that meant he would return before I went to bed and read to me. I preferred the stories he read in the library to the ones he came up with off the top of his head as was not a good story teller and abruptly ended the story if I asked too many questions.

"I will see you in an hour?" I asked hopefully.

Father tucked Madame Julia's scarf into his pocket before he turned from me. I was glad he was visiting Madame Julia as he always seemed genuinely happy to eat her food and drink all of her tea. Madame Julia made Father less lonely and she was kind enough to listen to him talk about his music and laugh at his jokes, which were usually music related, but not very amusing.

"I will watch the time," Father offered before he walked out of the dining room and into the kitchen.

"Father-"

The back door quietly closed. I darted to the window and pressed my face to the glass, shielding the glare of the lights overhead with both hands as I watched him walk through the back garden, through the gate, and to Madame Julia's house. He stood outside the back door for a long moment, then took a step back and examined the windows on the second floor before he knocked on the door a second time and waited.

Madame Julia finally answered. She didn't look particularly pleased to see my father, but he walked into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

I returned to my seat, ate my elf-sized sandwiches, and retrieved Bessie, who was whining at the top of the stairs and in need of a visit to the back garden.

She allowed me to carry her outside and place her into the grass, shivering once the heat of her body was no longer pressed to mine. I looked up at the clouded sky and snowflakes landed on my eyelashes and cheeks.

Perhaps Bessie could learn to pull a sled or Father would put on his heavier coat and thick gloves and help me build a snowman and a snow castle. Perhaps he would remove the White Face to feel the cold against his flesh.

Still shivering, I hugged my arms around myself and started to call Bessie inside, but she was not in our garden. The gate between our yard and Madame Julia's swung with the gentle breeze and I sighed in frustration.

"Have you been raised in a barn, Father?" I said under my breath, quoting Grandmere word for word.

I found Bessie sniffing through the brittle remnants of Madam Julia's vegetable garden, her tiny paws crushing old stems and leaves frozen to the ground.

"Bessie!" I whispered.

She paid no mind to me. I started to reach for her when I heard Madame Julia say my name and something about a newspaper. I looked away from Bessie and studied Madame Julia's home, finding her silhouette through the parlor window with Father standing several feet from her with his hands on his hips.

I left Bessie to explore and crept forward, every step precisely calculated as I neared the parlor window. There was ice along the outside of the sill and I realized the window was not completely shut, allowing me the ability to listen.

I should not have stayed. I should have gathered Bessie up and returned inside, particularly because my teeth were chattering and Father would have been furious for me eavesdropping.

But I heard my name again and that was far too tempting. A moment longer, I told myself, one more moment and then I would take Bessie inside.


	12. She Loves Me

One more chapter to go and this is complete! Thanks for reading!

CH 12

"Alex said he would return my scarf to me," Julia said once I closed the back door.

That was not exactly the greeting I had anticipated, which angered me considering how many hours of my day Julia had managed to invade my thoughts. Maddening woman.

"He left your scarf in my bedroom. Considering the weather, I thought I would be so kind as to return it to you now."

"How considerate, however, I assure you the scarf could have waited until tomorrow. I have no plans to leave tonight."

"You invited me-"

"So I did." Julia turned and walked away from me. "Leave my scarf on the hook, please."

I stood unmoving for a long moment, Julia's scarf bunched in my fist. I had half the mind to leave her scarf, slam the door, and return home without another word, but truthfully I was uncertain why Julia was being so curt as I had done nothing to warrant such a response. She invited me for food, conversation, and quite often a visit to her bedroom. She did not light a candle in order to scold me for returning an article of clothing.

We did not make it a habit of arguing. Julia was astoundingly patient when it came to listening to me talk about my music or the correspondence from various opera houses. She told me about the latest neighborhood gossip, and even if I had no interest or knowledge of whom she spoke, I nodded readily and pretended to be fascinated by the conversation merely because it kept the peace between us and it seemed fair that we equally bored one another.

I sighed to myself and neatly draped the green scarf over the hook by the back door, then walked down the hall to the parlor where Julia had no sweets or tea set out for the evening.

"Where are the biscuits?" I asked as I scanned the room. Somehow I had failed to notice that the kitchen was not warm from baking and there was no wafting smell of biscuits or tarts. How utterly disappointing. I frowned deeply so Julia would know how I felt.

"I didn't make anything."

Perhaps there was no food because she desired to take me directly to her bed, I hopefully thought. I stood up straighter and smoothed my hands over my waistcoat, but Julia paid no mind to me. She stood at a distance from me, one hand on her hip as she carelessly flipped through the newspaper.

"Julia?" I questioned.

"You sent Alex out half-naked for a photograph of Christine de Chagny printed in the paper?" Julia asked with her back to me.

So this was why she had invited me over to her home; an interrogation.

"Alex was hardly out on the streets alone," I said, making every attempt to keep my voice even as I had done nothing wrong. "Meg and Alex walked to the corner together."

"Meg wanted the paper, then?"

My jaw clenched. "No."

"Then who so urgently wanted the newspaper?"

"I did. But I did not send Alex to retrieve it."

"Ah."

 _Ah_. It was not a word. Julia made the slightest, most aggravating sound and I ground my teeth.

"My son is not your concern," I said tightly.

Julia didn't argue, at least not immediately. She turned and regarded me for a long moment, her expression impossible to read. "Does Alex know who she is?" Julia asked.

I was not prepared for her question. My mouth opened and abruptly closed. "Who?" I asked, hoping Julia would change the subject.

"I apologize as I thought my inquiry was quite clear. I mean to ask if your son knows about the woman whose image you have been collecting for months. Christine de Chagny."

"Daae," I corrected.

"Forgive me, but she has been married to the vicomte de Chagny for the past eight years," Julia calmly pointed out. "Not once have I seen her referred to as Mademoiselle Daae."

Rage ran like fire up the back of my neck and heated my cheeks. I had no desire to listen to Julia spout off marital bonds.

"Not for much longer," I arrogantly returned.

At last the expression on Julia's face changed. She lost her confidence and appeared quite taken aback by my words. "What does that mean?"

"She will return to me," I said.

I spoke firmly as though Christine had sent word that she could not wait to be in my arms again. For years I had played out every possible scenario of us being reunited, of how she would run to me, wrap her arms around my neck, and smile only for me. I imagined her breath against my face, her lips against mine, and the sound of her voice as she promised to stay with me forever.

For a single heartbeat, however, Julia looked at me with a wounded expression. "Has she been in touch with her son?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"Then Alex doesn't know who she is, does he?"

"What does it matter to you?" I shot back.

Julia folded her arms across her chest. I suspected she would feign exhaustion, slip past me, and say over her shoulder that I should see myself out and return home. "Alex means a great deal to me. He always has and he always will."

I snorted at her words. "He is _everything_ to me. For his sake I've been in touch with Christine for years," I said. Not that it was any of Julia's business, but I wanted her to know that my devotion to Christine was not some far-fetched, childish romance. "We correspond frequently."

Julia stared at me unblinking, her eyes narrowed. "Does she intend to leave her husband and two daughters?" Julia boldly asked.

My heart stuttered and my head felt momentarily light. My every hope was tied to seeing Christine again at last. One last chance, one last opportunity to convince her that she had made a terrible mistake in leaving me. We were bonded; two souls meant to be together for an eternity. Christine was everything to me, but in that moment I had no suitable answer for Julia.

I looked away from Julia, from the woman whom I knew far too well and who knew me. I should not have allowed her to know me the way she did as it gave her far too much artillery to wound me intimately.

"It should be no concern of yours, but when Christine sees her son, the decisions she has made will be sealed. He will be the reason she stays this time. It's up to..."

Julia's expression darkened. "You mean to say it's Alex's responsibility to make Christine love you? That is far too much of a burden to put on your son when they are strangers."

"You are incorrect, Madame. Christine loves me," I said. I lifted my chin and straightened my back as though my posture would somehow make my words true.

When I expected Julia's features to harden at my words, they softened. She tilted her head to the side and looked me over, frowning. A half a dozen times she had looked at me with this same solemn expression, particularly when a piece of music didn't sell or when a melody refused to be written and I made an unfinished symphony kindling for the parlor fireplace. My failures saddened Julia. She was the only person who ever showed genuine interest in my music and wanted to know more.

"When you see Christine again, will you be happy?" Julia asked quietly.

"Yes," I hissed, but everything I said still felt like a lie.

I had not been unhappy in Julia's company. Quite the contrary, if I was honest with myself. The first few months of knowing her had been painfully awkward and I assumed each time I went through the motions of a near disastrous evening of stilted conversation and consuming all of her baked goods that she would politely bid me a good evening, show me out, and swiftly lock the door.

But she had not shut me out. Repeatedly she invited me back into her home, and slowly I found myself looking forward to an evening of conversation. She asked me to bring my violin and sat with her hands folded in her lap and a bright, pleasant smile on her face when I played new music for her. She didn't mind if it was unfinished or if I had several versions of the same piece. Patiently she sat and listened to the same tune played four different times and applauded my efforts or asked to hear it again.

My legs were leaden, but I turned away from Julia and started down the hall, forcing myself to walk away from her. She was a distraction and nothing more, a barricade standing between the life I had and the life I desired. "Christine loves me as no one else ever has. Like no one else ever will. We are...we are meant to be together," I said over my shoulder.

Blinded by fury, I left Julia's house out the front door instead of the back and stalked down the street, my chest heaving and thoughts mangled.

"She loves me," I whispered.

Christine had walked away from me while I sobbed on my hands and knees, consumed by the grief I had created. She had kissed me and made the decision to be with another man. She had gifted me a son and given her husband three daughters. She sang for all of Europe but not for me, not for her mentor.

And yet I forgave her. I stayed awake for days on end and fantasized about her performance at the opening of the Exposition, of the music she woud select. I thought of all the music I had arranged that fit her voice perfectly, music that to my knowledge she had never glanced at let alone sang. I would have groveled at her feet until my knees were bloody. I would have kissed the hem of her dress or bought her jewels and fine gowns until they filled her bedroom to the ceiling. I would have begged for her to forgive my ugliness and wept with gratitude when she spared me a glance.

If that was not love, then I did not know what love was.

Heaviness settled in my chest, an invisible stone up against my lungs. I should have returned home as I was not dressed for the cold weather, yet still I walked through the city and to the remains of the Opera House in what was now a dangerous part of Paris.

I walked along the perimeter of the boarded up structure and thought of how Christine had left with her fiance. Time had stood still in that dreadful, humiliating moment. It truly could have stopped and I would not have cared as I had no desire to survive past her rejection.

The stage door entrance had two boards missing and a faded sign warning people to stay out. This had been the doorway Madeline had rushed me through when she took me from the fairgrounds. This had been where I stood paralyzed by fear, certain the ballerina had led me into a trap in order to collect a reward. I had come and gone through this doorway hundreds of times before as I ventured out into the darkened streets, my belly rumbling and mind unsettled. I slipped through shadows silently, shrouded in darkness and behind the hood of my cloak.

Briskly I walked around to the rear of the building where the stable no longer existed. The straw and hay-not to mention the wooden overhang-had burned swiftly during the fire. On the opposite side of the stables was the delivery bay, which was where I had made my final exit that fateful night, dripping wet when I stumbled from my boat and numb from the events of the evening. The gendarmes had sprinted past me, more concerned by the smoke and flames than anyone fleeing the Opera House.

Often I wished that I had stayed within the building and burned along with the theater, but I had survived. Beatings, torture...the fire that I had started...I was no Phoenix. I was the devil's son, remaining earthbound for further torment. I had withered with the disaster, deflated to such an extent that I had no idea how I had survived the weeks that followed.

I had more than surpassed my limit for the amount of suffering I was capable of surviving. Madness tugged on my thoughts as I considered how many ways I had been denied and rejected in four decades. I wanted to walk through the abandoned theater and see if the rooftop garden grew wild. I wanted to stand on the ledge, throw my arms out, and shout for all of Paris to hear that Christine Daae would be mine again. Perhaps the wind would catch me and I would lose my balance on the edge, free falling onto the streets and put out of my misery at last.

For Alex's sake, I stepped away from the building and the rooftop temptation. I took one last look at the damaged building and whispered my words among ash and soot and warnings by the gendarmes that looting would not be tolerated. I whispered my love for Christine, the undying affection of an angel for his beloved prodigy. And as I made way back home, I silently begged her to return a fraction of that love to me.

I would have her again or I would die trying. There were no other choices.

I began to shiver violently as I trudged home with my hands in my pockets and shoulders hunched to my ears. The snow fell in lazy flakes, the cobblestones warm enough to melt them on contact. I touched my chin to my chest and quickened my pace as I passed Julia's home. It took every bit of self control not to spare a glance at the lights on the first floor or to search for her silhouette.

At last I returned home and fumbled with the keys, my fingers painfully stiff from the weather and teeth chattering with cold. Bessie met me at the door, her paws beating against my shins and knees as she celebrated my return.

"She loves me," I murmured one last time.

And I was not certain of whom I spoke.


	13. Love and Loss

last chapter! Giving the reins to Julia to finish off this short story. In a few weeks I will probably start a short story similar to this about the first few days/weeks after the opera house fire. Hope you've enjoyed reading about Erik, Alex and Bessie.

CH 13

" _She loves me. Christine loves me like no one else ever has."_

I had never heard such confident words spoken by a man who lacked all faith and conviction in himself.

Erik carried unspoken grief within him, heaviness that he attempted to push down, but there was nowhere else for it to go. For months he had steadily lost weight and refused to sleep as he poured himself into this woman whom I doubted knew he still existed.

Erik looked at me briefly before he stormed out, his eyes blazing a tormented shade of green. I knew he didn't believe the words he spoke aloud because he had shown me time and again over the years that he did not believe anyone truly cared for him.

"Please, Erik-"

The door slammed shut.

Fool of a man. He had no idea that a tray full of cookies or a pot of tea were my whispers of affection for him. We sat side by side, his hand gently resting over mine, and often talked until dawn.

Late in the night he lost his inhibition and let slip small details of his childhood: how he didn't know his mother well, how his father had no time or patience for him. Slowly he elaborated as the months went by, and he whispered of how his mother spent hours rocking in a corner not saying a word and that his father drank too much and punished him frequently. Absently he would rub his arm where the round scar prominently stood out, a cigar burn he muttered was an accident. _I was a terrible child_ , he would whisper.

With glassy, haunted eyes, he would stare at the fireplace, then blink rapidly, sit up, and say he needed to return home for Alex before his son thought he was abandoned.

"Alex loves you like no one else," I said long after Erik slammed the front door. "And you might not think so, Erik Kire, but I am fond of you as well. Fond and worried."

I started to exit the parlor when I heard a sniffle coming from the windows. Alarmed, I stepped forward and pushed the curtain aside, finding wide eyes and a round face staring back at me.

"Alex?"

He froze where he crouched behind the bushes, his thick curls of hair dusted in snow and large, dark eyes filled with surprise.

"What are you doing?"

"I lost Bessie," he said. He picked up the puppy to show me. "Father didn't close the gate and she wandered over here."

With a sigh, I motioned him toward the back door and met him at the step. He was still shivering violently, his cheeks red from the cold and his lips blue from standing outside far too long. I didn't have the heart to turn him away.

"Come inside for a moment and I'll warm you up if you'd like."

"Bessie too?" Alex asked.

I smiled at him. I wasn't much for dogs, but if she was left in the cold, I had no doubt Erik would be highly irritated-even if he claimed the pup belonged to his son. "Bessie too."

There was a knitted blanket on the chair beside the fire, which I used to bundle Alex in once he sat. I placed my hands against his red cheeks, feeling him release one last shiver as I enveloped him in warmth. Kneeling before him, I rubbed his hands in mine until he said the feeling returned.

"Drinking chocolate or tea?" I asked.

His eyes brightened. "Chocolate, please," he said.

He was his father's son. Both of them would have chosen sweets over a cup of tea. I left him in the parlor with Bessie asleep on his lap and finished warming the chocolate I would have served his father. From the kitchen I heard Alex tell Bessie that they were both going to be well taken care of and that she could sleep as long as she liked.

"Madame Julia is the nicest," he said. "Perhaps tied with Aunt Meg, I suppose, but Madame Julia smells wonderful all the time. Of course, Aunt Meg always smells like food. Another tie. Oh! But Madame Julia never yells or says bad words and Aunt Meg yells bad words a lot."

I chuckled to myself. Clearly he thought I was quite the saint.

"Madame Julia is the perfect mother. She has warm blankets and sweets and her hands are so soft. Everything about her is soft and squishy. She is like a pillow." He sighed to himself. "All of the best women are soft, Bessie, you included."

I could have listened to him list my best qualities for the rest of the night, but the drinking chocolate was ready to be consumed and I didn't want to leave Alex alone for long.

"Are your insides warm?" I asked as he gulped down the drink.

He nodded and swiped the back of his hand across his lips, spreading chocolate across his cheek. From where I sat beside him, I leaned forward and cleaned off his face, which earned me a disapproving look. At eight years of age, he did not want to be treated like a baby.

"Madame Julia?" Alex asked.

"Yes, darling?"

"Would I be in trouble if I asked you a question that I probably should not ask?"

"Why shouldn't you ask?"

"Because...it would mean I overheard something I shouldn't have heard."

I furrowed my brow. "You may ask whatever you wish, my dear, and I'll see if I am able to answer."

Alex chewed on his bottom lip. "My mother…" he started to say. "Is she…?"

My breath hitched as Alex kicked his legs and turned the cup around and around in his hands. He was a free-spirited little boy, the type of child who was quick to smile and always had something on his mind. He brought me flowers in the summer that he tore up from his aunt's garden, a wilted mess of lilles, dirt and weeds that he proudly handed to me. He asked questions and offered his own answers well before I could reply. He was not the sort of boy who sat quietly or considered his words with care.

And yet here he sat utterly speechless, grappling with a question when I knew in my heart he had overheard the answer moments earlier while searching for his dog.

"No one has ever spoken of your mother," I said. "Have they?"

Alex sullenly shook his head. "I didn't know I had a mother." He pursed his lips. "I...I thought she had died giving birth to me and that is why Father has never mentioned her, but now..." His dark eyes shifted toward the fireplace. "I look like her, don't I?"

"I-"

"Do you think it makes Father sad to look at me?"

My heart broke for this little boy who should have been having this conversation with his father. "Never, Alex."

"But he doesn't want to speak to me," Alex blurted out. He pressed his glassy eyes shut and pursed his lips, attempting to hold in his emotions. Despite how much he resembled Christine, Alex was every bit his father.

"You have so many people who love you, Alex," I said, which I knew didn't lessen the pain he must have felt.

"Do you think she loves me?" Alex asked hopefully. He opened his eyes and silently pleaded for an answer.

I knew very little of Christine de Chagny outside of her career detailed in the newspaper and what little Erik said about her, which was mostly reduced to praise that gave me a splitting headache. Meg had allowed a few stories to slip here and there while we snapped green beans or chopped carrots and potatoes for supper. Christine was a girl with her head in the clouds, who shrieked at every shadow in the flies of the theater and who swore she saw sinister figures waiting in the wings.

"You are very lovable, my dear," I said. "Especially when you're covered in chocolate and providing a warm seat for a tired puppy."

"My mother doesn't know me," he said. "And I don't know her, but I should love her, shouldn't I?"

"Love can take time, Alex."

"How long did it take you to love Lisette?" he asked.

I sat back and inhaled, thinking of how I had been in love with my daughter from the moment I saw her blotchy face with her swollen eyes and little lips in a pout. I had been newly wed at the age of seventeen and separated from the rest of my family. Louis had made it perfectly clear that he had no desire to raise our child and that the duty of child rearing and tending to the house was mine alone. Six months after we said our vows and moved to Paris, Lisette was born. I had turned eighteen a month earlier, still a girl thrust into the role of a woman.

"Lissy is my heart. She's the first person I ever truly loved from the first moment I laid eyes on her."

Alex grinned. "Aunt Meg says I am the first person she saw and immediately loved."

"I'm sure she tells you that often."

"Almost daily," Alex confirmed. "I wish she was my mother because then I would know for certain she already loved me." He paused and looked up at me with his dark eyes and quick grin. "And you. I wish you were my mother as well because I love you."

Alex placed Bessie on the rug and stood. He put his empty mug on the service cart and then flung his arms around me without warning, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His breaths tickled as I ran my fingers through his hair and felt his grip tighten.

"If I had a son, I would want it to be you, Alexandre," I whispered into his curls. I kissed the top of his head and wrapped my arms around him.

"You could be my mother," he replied. "I would pick you for certain."

His words made me smile. "I will always be here for you, Alex, no matter what. To feed you sweets, to warm you up, and to kiss your forehead. Nothing will ever change my love for you."

He scrunched up his nose and giggled as I kissed him and squeezed tighter.

"What about Father?" Alex asked.

"I feed him sweets already," I cautiously replied. "Far too many sweets according to your grandmere."

Alex pulled the blanket tighter over his shoulders and stifled a yawn. "Do you think you will always be friends with Father?"

An innocent question from an innocent little boy who had no idea how much I genuinely cared for his father.

"I hope so," I answered honestly.

"I hope so too." Alex pushed the blanket off his shoulders and held the puppy to his chest. "I should return home. Father will need me."

I walked Alex to the gate and watched him run inside. He waved enthusiastically before he dashed out of view. With him safely home, I returned to the parlor to gather up the mug for his drinking chocolate and to fold the blanket and place it back over the chair.

Just as I turned from the fireplace, I saw Erik through the front window on his way back home, his hands in his pockets and posture stiff considering he was in trousers, a lawn shirt, and waistcoat. He looked more gaunt than ever before, which worried me as he appeared to be wasting away.

His pace slowed as he reached the walking path leading to my front door and I silently willed him to return for a moment so that the night did not end in anger. I started down the hall and toward the foyer, but as I opened the front door, I realized he had already rounded the corner.

"Oh, Erik," I said under my breath once I shut the door. Holding back the sob lodged in my throat became impossible, and I clapped my hand over my mouth as tears filled my eyes.

Nine years earlier, he had been The Phantom to all of Paris. The newspapers had made him out to be an insidious, blood-thirsty beast preying upon an unsuspecting young woman, but the man whom I had approached one night on the corner of the street was no monster.

He had kept his distance from me the first time we met, his eyes wide and arms straight at his side as he spoke in clipped sentences and frequently looked away from me as though he expected to be cornered at any moment. He excused himself by saying that his son needed him before he hurried away, and I doubted I would see him again. To my surprise, he accepted my invitation for tea...five months later.

Slowly I realized that Erik kept to himself despite sharing the same home with three other adults-and of course he didn't know anyone in the neighborhood and no one knew him. When Erik left his home, he did so exclusively after dark when no one would notice him. The ghost of Paris lived on.

And yet, despite living like a hermit, nearly everyone in Paris heard his music. The famous E. M. Kire delighted thousands upon thousands of opera patrons. Symphonies played his music in the parks and his work was performed all over the world, but the man behind the music was completely unknown. I had him all to myself, this soft-spoken, often grumbling musical genius who could eat half a dozen scones in one sitting and ask why I hadn't made more.

Sip by sip of drinking chocolate, bite by bite of sweets, Erik revealed his enigmatic self. He spoke with enthusiasm about his music, he smiled-genuinely smiled-when I requested he play a piece of music I knew, and he chuckled softly when I attempted to hum a melody when I didn't know the name.

"You are truly unfamiliar with music?" he asked me one night as he followed me into the kitchen.

"Not in the least," I answered.

Sometimes he found my lack of musical knowledge disappointing and other times he found it utterly amusing. This had been one of the times he found it amusing.

"Your laugh," he said as he took a peach from the fruit bowl. "I have never composed nor heard a single piece of music as breathtaking as your laugh."

I thought of that moment as I washed out the mug Alex had used. Erik had taken a bite of the peach and leaned against the doorway for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. He mumbled under his breath that he would attempt to write a concerto worthy of my laugh and walked out the back door, whistling his way back home.

While Erik brought flowers he cut from Meg's garden and brought samples of his music he wanted me to hear before anyone else, I made him sweets on the evenings he visited my home. There was lemonade in the summer and hot tea or drinking chocolate in the colder months. I knew what pastries he preferred and that he always had seconds...and sometimes thirds. It amazed me that a man who could indulge so frequently didn't have an ounce of extra flesh on his bones-and it equally amazed me that a man who was quick-witted and intelligent spent the majority of his time alone in his bedroom.

 _I love you_ , we had said in dozens of ways over the years, and yet neither of us had dared to speak those three words aloud. We had been together for nearly five years and I had fallen in love with him only to have him slowly retract from me within a handful of months.

I hadn't realized what was happening the first time Erik brought the newspaper with him late one night. He kept it tucked under his arm, glancing briefly at the cover page every so often as he spoke. Eventually I asked if there was a new review for his latest opera and he said no, it was something much more important than anything he had ever written.

He slowly weaved Christine into our conversations. One of his operas would be performed in Rome's upcoming season and coincidentally Christine would be singing there in two weeks. The London Symphony had selected two of his compositions for the spring; Christine had already performed there and it was a triumph.

"One day, Alex will see her perform for himself," Erik said to me.

I couldn't tell if he truly wished for Alex to his see his mother or if it was a ploy to see Christine one more time. I regretted not asking him more questions.

With a sigh, I turned off the kitchen light just as the light in Erik's kitchen flickered on. I watched him walk into the room with the hound puppy cradled against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and turned his face as she enthusiastically returned the gesture and licked his cheek.

I smiled to myself as I watched the two of them from the comfort of my darkened kitchen. Erik had denied his adoration for Bessie, but with no one around to see his affection for the pup, he let his guard down.

I saw Erik's lips moving and wondered what he said to Bessie as he hand fed her kitchen scraps while continuing to hold her against his chest. He was quite smitten with this pup he claimed was his son's dog.

A moment later Alex burst into the kitchen. He started to take a step back, but Erik motioned his son forward and handed him the dog. With his chin pressed down into the pup's neck, I doubted Alex saw his father continue to reach out to him.

 _Look up, Alex_ , I willed this child in need of his father's affection. _For Heaven's sake, Erik, say something to your son,_ I willed this lonely, wounded man.

Erik's hand lowered, and Alex turned to leave with his dog. For a long moment Erik remained in the kitchen, his arms straight at his sides and head bowed as though he had not yet processed his son leaving the room.

I wondered if Christine had ever seen a tender side of Erik, if she had ever seen the good in the father of her only son. In the newspaper it had been reported that she called him a faceless monster, one more insult upon a lifetime of derogatory comments hurled at a frustrated and desperate man who longed to be loved.

Erik was not innocent; much of what had transpired nine years earlier was his doing, but given the fractured details he had shared with me over the years we had known one another, the scars I had seen across his back and over his chest, he had suffered more cruelty in his lifetime than I could possibly fathom. His father had been relentless, a drunken mess of a man who had frequently punished his only son. There were others who had tormented him; a man named Garouche and a woman from the Orient. The physical scars across his torso fueled emotional scars in the form of nightmares.

It was clear to me that Erik truly believed he did not deserve compassion. He expected to be turned away, to be humiliated and berated by everyone he encountered. The world saw a monster, and that was what they had made him.

Erik turned his head and stared out the kitchen window. I was certain it was too dark for him to see me, but I still stepped forward and smiled at him in case he noticed me looking back at him. He reached for his mask and I pressed my palm to the glass and held my breath, waiting.

A long moment passed. His splayed fingers remained against his masked cheek. I knew there were scars on the left side of his face; I could see that his lip was misshapen and on several occasions when Erik fell asleep and the mask didn't sit directly against his face, I had glimpsed the scar tissue at his jaw.

I would not turn from him if he removed the mask. I would not scream or close my eyes or ask him to cover the scars.

"It makes no difference to me." I whispered the words I had long wished to tell him in person. "By now you should know this."

At last Erik bowed his head, turned, and briskly walked out of the kitchen without turning off the light.

I knew in that moment I was losing him-and a part of me wondered if I had truly ever had him in the first place.


End file.
